


Two Sides of the Same Coin

by ZombieliciousXIII



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Afterplay/aftercare, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub, Domspace, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Good BDSM Etiquette, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Idiots in Love, Jaskier teaches Geralt how to Dom, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Abuse, Please heed chapter warnings, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Smut, Strangers to Lovers, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Subspace, writer jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:06:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 95,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZombieliciousXIII/pseuds/ZombieliciousXIII
Summary: Jaskier is a professional poet that aspires to be a fantasy novelist, and escorts on the side to focus on his writing. Unfortunately, he lacks inspiration for his fantasy novel 'The Witcher,' that is, until a new client hires him. Enter Geralt Rivia. A man who doesn't understand his sexual desires, and puts his last hopes on Jaskier to help him finally make sense of his repressed fantasies. Jaskier is happy to help, finding inspiration in the elusive man...though his heart fears that may not be all he begins to find in the aspiring Dominant who had hired him....OR~~Jaskier is an escort hired by Geralt, who doesn't understand what it truly means to be a 'Dominant' but is eager to learn. Jaskier is an experienced submissive who is more than happy to show him the ropes (literally). Feels, smut, and angst ensue!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (past), Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg (background)
Comments: 380
Kudos: 546
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Do We Have a Deal, Love?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first attempt at a Geralt/Jaskier fic, but once this idea hit me I couldn't help but write it.  
> I really hope y'all enjoy reading this as much as I have writing it!

“I’ve changed my mind,” Geralt mumbles to his car’s speakers, hands refusing to leave the steering wheel.

“ **Oh for the love of- get your gargantuan _arse_ out of the car and get _in_ there-**” Yennefer’s words over the car’s Bluetooth speakers cut off, and after a few muffled words, another voice takes over.

“ **Geralt, it’s Triss,** ” he almost wants to tell her he knows, if only he could get his mind to quiet and his hands to stop sweating. “ **I promise you, he knows what he’s doing-** “

“How can you know that?” Geralt growls out, he knows she means well - Triss _always_ means well - but why in Melitele’s grace did he agree to this?

“ **Because Yen and I hired him in the past.** ” And that...makes Geralt pause. When Yen told him about this, she’d never mentioned _using_ the service herself. “ **When we’d first begun seeing each other, we couldn’t...figure out our _dynamics_ with each other, and he was a great help in us finding our balance.**”

Geralt _wanted_ to huff and turn his car around. Wanted to _leave_ before the man he'd agreed to consult with could peek outside his window and catch Geralt sitting in his car like a nervous boy on his first date. But Yennefer and Triss were perfect together, and knowing that this person had _helped_ them achieve that...well, it made the man pause. Ciri needed stability in her life. After he and Yen had - albeit amicably - divorced, she’d found Triss, while Geralt could barely stand his bed-partners. Let alone a foundational relationship.

_Ciri needs a father with his head screwed on right, not a clandestine serial-dater who pays the rent._

He sighs, then glares at the stereo when he hears Triss say (likely speaking to Yen and not him), “ **I told you he wouldn’t chicken out!** ” before hanging up. If that was a calculated move on Triss is part, he didn’t know but damn his pride because _now_ he knew there was no turning back - lest Yen hold this over his head for the rest of, well, forever really. It didn’t help that Triss had the look of I’m Not Mad, Just Disappointed down to an art form, one that even Geralt wasn’t immune to.

“Let’s get this over with.” With a sigh that, even to his ears, sounded rather petulant Geralt exists the car and heads for the entrance of the duplex. The moment Geralt notices the house number is ‘6969’ he almost turns to leave at that alone. That was _far_ too on-the-nose to be a coincidence, and it made him-

“So you decided to give me a try, then?” If he were more easily surprised, Geralt might have decked the man right then and there. The door swung open to reveal a too-bright grin and blue eyes, and...what the fuck?

“How _old_ are?” He didn’t think Yen and Triss would get involved with someone not of legal age but...fuck he looked like a damn _kid._

The question seems to throw the (hopefully) not-kid for a moment, but he reorients himself quick enough and barks a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but don’t worry your fabulously pretty head, I’m twenty-seven, love.”

“I’m Dandelion, and you must be Geralt.” It wasn’t a question, but Geralt hummed in response anyway. His eyes almost sparkling with mirth as he sizes up the man before him before meeting Geralt’s gaze. “Now, would you like a cuppa? I brewed it up while you were sitting in your car like a _totally_ normal person,” his words are chiding but spoken in good-humour. Geralt hadn’t known what he’d expected when he’d agreed to all this, but it wasn’t someone who treated him more akin to an old friend than a client he’d never met before. It irked him to admit, but it made stepping into the man’s apartment easier.

“Make yourself at home,” the man - Dandelion - says, gesturing to the furniture in the open-plan living room, continuing further in towards a whistling kettle sat on the kitchen stove.

One would think there’d be some hesitation on Dandelion’s part, letting in a man he’d never even spoken to before this meeting into his home. But there wasn’t even so much as a subtle line of tension in his shoulders as he turned his back to Geralt, pouring out their drinks. Though, Geralt was silently grateful for the moment of privacy. Analytical eyes take in his surroundings, cataloging everything they came across. Dandelion seemed to love his reading and music. Shelves were lined with books of various genres, their spines well-worn, but their conditions looked more akin to avid rereads than simple carelessness. There’d be dust if it was the latter. He’d dated a woman - if one date and a quick fuck in her car could be considered ‘dating’ - a few months back who said she “loved reading.” Which Geralt found out meant she loved reading People Magazine, while using Austen and Atwood as coffee coasters. She hadn't bothered calling him back, and he hadn’t cared to do it, either.

“Sugar?” Dandelion calls over his shoulder, smiling at Geralt like he was an old friend.

“Two,” he answers, adding a gruff, “thanks,” a moment later. It wouldn’t do for him to think Geralt was an asshole before they even began.

Yen would have smacked him upside the head by now for being so sullen. Three years retired from the Navy SEALs, and he still took in his surroundings like he was in active-combat, just waiting for an opponent to pop out and strike. He looked over to Dandelion, who seemed so at ease with a stranger in his home. Perhaps it came with his profession’s territory. He was a slight man, but there was a promise of firmness to him with the way his navy blue button-down tightened around his shoulders and biceps. Even from the living room Geralt could tell he had a solid handful of inches of height over the man. That fact should have put him at ease. And yet, he felt rather small in the plush recliner he’d settled into. He was out of his comfort zone in his _car,_ and right now, he felt like he was on an entirely different planet to what most considered ‘normal.’

“Here we are,” Dandelion’s voice pulls him from his reverie. He meets the man’s gaze as he stands before him, all warm smiles and bright eyes. Geralt almost forgets to take the proffered mug, feeling his throat dry up at the man so close. Almost.

Somehow, a twenty-something was more nerve-wracking than active-combat. Yen would be cackling if she were here.

“Before we start," he takes a seat, meeting Geralt's gaze head-on, "I’d like to ask if you took anything before coming here.” For the first time since he’d entered Dandelion’s home, the man looked absolutely serious. Geralt’s confusion must be clear on his face, as the man clarifies, “drank anything alcoholic? Took a Xanax or smoke a toke? No judgement on my part, but I do require my clients to be of sound-mind on our first meeting.”

“I don’t drink,” Geralt answers, blunt and to the point. “Smoking isn’t much my thing, and I haven’t taken any pills.”

Dandelion nods and his smile returns just as easily as it had gone. “Well then, when Triss called to arrange this consult she said she’d leave the details of what you’d need to you, which I prefer. No one but you will be able to tell me what, exactly, it is you’re looking for.”

Shit. There had been a silent part of Geralt that hoped she had. Some may think it strange, that his best friend was his ex-wife's _current_ wife, but he and Yen had never been people to adhere to norms. This entire consult exemplified that. Although, perhaps he _was_ a bit relieved Triss hadn’t gone into specifics, even if that left him floundering for where to start. Which, once again, Dandelion seemed to pick up on. He’d expected some judgment, maybe even a huff or sigh from the man instead of an understanding smile. Geralt was halfway to forty for fuckssake, he _should_ know what he wanted, but he _didn’t_ damnit. Hence, this meeting.

“How about I tell you about myself and what I can offer, and you tell me if any of them are suitable to your needs?” Geralt nods, not eagerly, but it’s a start - a gracious one at that. “Alright then, for now, you can call me Dandelion. I’ve been escorting on and off for roughly half a decade by now, give or take. I offer platonic companionship; simple movie dates, or family and work functions for clients who prefer not to be alone. I also offer more _intimate_ arrangements with my clients, prefaced on agreed-upon terms beforehand, of course. It can range from simple vanilla things- oh, ‘vanilla’ means basic sexual acts, missionary, for example. Tender love-making and such. However, for those looking for more kinky relations, I offer those services too. I switch, so some hire me to dominate them, while others prefer to dominate me-”

“‘Dominate’?” Dandelion’s right brow twitches ever so slightly, and Geralt fights back the warmth he feels crawling up his neck.

“Yes, have you ever heard of the BDSM community? Outside of porn, I mean,” when Geralt shakes his head, Dandelion nods. “‘BDSM’ stands for Bondage/Discipline, Domination/Submission, or Sadism/Masochism. The terms can seem a bit scary, but it boils down to a power dynamic. Some prefer to be overpowered, while others prefer to do the overpowering. It’s all consensual, of course. Everything we might engage in will be agreed upon beforehand, safe words and aftercare included. Is that something that interests you, Geralt?”

Geralt feels his heart battering against his chest, not rapidly, but heavily. Deeply. He could never explain how or why he _liked_ pinning down his partners, making them helpless to him, without sounding like a damn rapist. Any talk of sex that bordered on the line of what piqued his intrigue was always quickly usurped by guilt. He was a large man, a _scary_ man according to some. And in the bedroom, he was always careful - _so_ careful - with his partners that…that he never honestly _much_ enjoyed himself. Sure, he'd get off, as would his partners - that was part of the fun for him. However, something had always been _missing._ But this…

“But how is controlling someone during sex not…” he trails off, flailing a hand in the air, unable to speak the words. Hoping Dandelion would understand what he was getting at.

“Because it’s agreed upon by consenting people beforehand,” Dandelion patiently explains, no facial tick of judgment or irritation present at having to repeat himself. “It would be different if, let's say, someone overpowered another in an intimate setting without telling the person what they were getting into. But proper BDSM etiquette follows the basic rules of ‘safe, sane, and consensual.’ And if it ever feels to be too much, even if it was agreed upon, ‘safe words’ or gestures bring everything to a stop. Without question. For both partners.”

It seemed…too easy. Geralt had nosed around porn sites like any human, but it always left him feeling _off._ The moans always coming off forced; the women overacting to get it over with, and the men unrealistic to the point of being turned _off._ He feels stupid, somehow, for not knowing any of this.

“Do you know what role you prefer taking?”

“Dominant…from what you described,” he looks at the young man, who watches him with an openness Geralt almost feels undeserving of. “Is that okay?”

Dandelion’s smiles are something he’s growing to like. They're warm, somehow.

“It’s perfect, Geralt,” he leans in a little, as though telling Geralt a secret, even though they’re the only two people in the apartment. Geralt finds himself leaning in as well. “I’m personally more of a submissive myself, so this should be fun," he winks at Geralt before sitting back in his seat. He's playful about this, which makes it easier for Geralt to breathe a bit more easily.

"Have you ever partaken in Domination over a submissive before?”

Geralt thinks about it for a minute. There had been moments. Moments he felt a heat sparked low in his belly when partners would ask them to slap their ass or pull their hair, but all those things also fall within the realm of ‘rough sex.’ Was there a difference? 

“I think?” Dandelion nods at this, smiling into his mug as though he can read Geralt’s conflicting thoughts. Yen said she could never read him, but it seems Dandelion can as easily as an open book. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. “I might have come across some things online, but they…”

“Were kind of frightening?” He jokes, voice whimsical and playful, and Geralt can’t help but chuckle; that was an understatement. “The internet can be a lot when it comes to the BDSM community,” Dandelion pauses to sip at his tea, which reminds Geralt to do the same. “Some things online are too tame, while others are almost cartoonishly crazy. If this is something that genuinely intrigues you, we can start slow and easy, and work our way up to what you enjoy and are comfortable with. This will all be at your pace, Geralt. If you ever feel like it's too much, or not what you want, we can end this at any time, too.”

Geralt almost feels a bit flustered by the younger man’s reassurances, being so used to having to be the one to do all the soothing - as best as he’s capable anyway. Yennefer once told him during their marriage that he had the emotional availability of a tree stump. She wasn’t wrong. Though this…he almost felt excited by the prospect, but also incredibly nervous. What if he hurt Dandelion? What if-

“I’m sturdier than I look, love,” Dandelion interjects, stopping his worries in their tracks, “and as I said, there are safety measures we’ll take prior to every scene- oh, 'scenes' are what us kinksters say when referring to the acts themselves. I'll help you with the lingo as we go, not to worry. Anyway, it helps that Triss and Yenna vouched for you, so I’m not worried that you’ll violate anything-”

“I won’t,” the words leave him before he can stop them, but he wanted - _needed_ \- Dandelion to know he wouldn’t hurt him. Wouldn’t cross any lines or break any rules. This man was willing to let Geralt… _explore_ his deviances. He was grateful and terrified, but already knew he was grasping onto this opportunity with both hands. He didn’t know if he’d get another chance at this, otherwise.

Dandelion smiles at him again, but this time it’s different, somehow. His eyes are more intent on Geralt, the curve of his lips inviting in a wholly different way than it had been moments ago, “then there’s one last thing to check before we go over the nitty-gritty.”

Dandelion stands from his chair and slowly walks over to Geralt, who sets him mug down just before the man stands in between his legs. Cerulean eyes stare at him with _heat,_ and he can feel it spark something hot and low in his gut. The brunet reaches out, the pads of soft fingers ghosting over his jawline. “I’m going to kiss you, Geralt, is this okay?”

Geralt nods, but Dandelion tsks, “I need words, love.”

“Yes,” Geralt breathes before Dandelion slowly enters his space, hand now warm against the side of his face. 

“Good boy.” Geralt’s stomach swoops the moment their lips touch. Dandilion's lips are plush and soft. Pliant. It’s not mind-blowing, but simple, and full of a promise that makes Geralt’s head spin. Geralt leans into the kiss for a pleasurable moment before Dandelion pulls back, just enough to meet his gaze. “How does that feel?”

“Good,” Geralt hums, remembering to use his words. Dandelion’s smile widens into the warmth Geralt has grown used to seeing. Lighting up his eyes.

“Down to business then,” Dandelion straightens, though his hand lingers on Geralt's face for a moment longer. "Oh, and call me Jaskier."


	2. Sides of the Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thank you SO much for your support over the first chapter, I hope you enjoy this one just as much!

**_Hello Geralt!_ ** ****

**_I hope you’re doing well. I’ve attached some links to what I thought we could explore for our first session._ **

**_Have a look-see and let me know if there’s anything you feel interested in trying, no wrong answers!_ **

**_We’ll discuss the details once you’ve settled on something._ **

**_See you Friday, love! ;D_ ** ****

**_~ Lots of kisses,_ **

**_Jaskier_ **

Geralt stares at the email from his…escort? Companion? Teacher? Friend? _I don’t think friends give you two false names and teach you how to fuck._ Whatever Jaskier was to him, he stares at the email and rereads it for the millionth time this past week. They’d spoken throughout the week. Through video calls and emails, they settled on what Jaskier absolutely wouldn’t do, and what Geralt wanted to try. They’d discussed Jaskier’s house rules, and what his and Geralt’s safe words were - 'Chameleon' and 'Roach,' respectively. They were set to see each other tonight, but Jaskier wanted to have one more video call at noon to check with Geralt if there was anything else to clear up before they began. Geralt hadn’t had any questions left to ask, aside from maybe what to wear…was there a specific attire he’d need? ( _Not_ need?) He checked his monitor’s time again, _fifteen minutes._

Over the past week, he’d been torn between finding himself utterly excited to explore this part of himself that he kept so tightly locked away, and wanting to say “fuck it” and call Jaskier, pay for wasting his time, and calling it quits. However, each video call and email from Jaskier only worked to soothe him into the idea further. Settle his nerves. The man acted like a ditz, but he knew his work. Even Geralt couldn’t argue that. Every question or doubt Geralt flung his way, Jaskier handled with practiced ease and an air of friendliness that assuaged Geralt’s nerves about the whole arrangement. The more they spoke, the more he found himself anticipating his next visit to the duplex. To Jaskier. To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier was even forthcoming with personal information.

Geralt had tried being invasive during a bout of insecurity, asking Jaskier why he was even bothering with Geralt when Geralt didn’t even know what he _wanted._ The young man smiled at Geralt in a way that seemed far beyond his years, wise and patient; a parent dealing with a petulant child. _“I enjoy my work and what it can do for people, for one,”_ Jaskier had begun easily. _“And secondly, with you it’s a little selfish, I must admit. I’m a writer, Geralt. But truth be told I've been having had a bit of a…”_ for the first time, Geralt saw Jaskier looking embarrassed (if only slightly), “' _block' lately. Though, I think I’ve found my muse in you. We_ can _end this, here and now, if that’s what you really want. Just know; I’m as invested in this arrangement as you are._ ” The answer wasn’t one Geralt was expecting to be frank, at all. Though it settled something in him, knowing that he wasn’t the only one benefitting from this. Sure, Jaskier was being generously compensated for his time, but it still left something of a discomfort in Geralt’s gut.

He’d apologized. He'd been rude, and there was no excusing it when all Jaskier was doing what _helping_ him. But Jaskier smiled, his expression almost relieved but it was the understanding in his eyes that settled Geralt. He'd accepted Geralt’s words without further prodding. Perhaps it was because Geralt wasn't the first insecure client he'd dealt with, but somehow, it felt like a little more than that.

It’s a thing of pure skill, that he doesn’t jump out of his skin when his phone’s ringer screeches at him. Snatching up the device he huffs at the name that appears. Really, he should have been expecting this.

“Hi, Yenn,” Geralt greets, eyes focusing on the time display. _Five minutes._

“ **You excited?** ” She asks without preamble, and if the tittering in the background was any clue, Triss was probably listening in for his answer too. Geralt wants to play it casually but knew the two women would see through him. They were well-versed in ‘Geralt-ology’, as they called it, so why lie?

“I am,” he answers honestly. "We’re having the last check-in in three minutes, and I’m due to see him at six today.”

“ **Decided what you’re going to try?** ” Geralt felt his gut twist. It wasn’t that he thought Yen or Triss would judge him, far from it. But some superstitious part of him was scared to jinx it, somehow. There was a yelp over the phone’s speakers, some scuffling, before Triss's voice takes over the silence.

“ **You don’t have to answer that, Geralt,** ” her tone was pointed, likely at her wife, before continuing, “ **what Yen _meant_ to say was; we’re happy for you Geralt. Jaskier is amazing, and we hope this works out, for both of you.**”

Geralt almost thanks Triss for their support, until her words catch up and he pauses, “what do you mean ‘both’- oh shit, he’s calling, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Geralt hangs up before Triss finishes saying goodbye. Running a hand through his hair he heaves a sigh, and when that doesn’t ease the knot of anticipation in his gut, he answers the call anyway. Jaskier’s face appears heavily pixilated for a few seconds until the connection rights itself and Geralt's faced with familiar cerulean eyes. The image clear enough the man may as well have been standing in front of him. Almost, anyway.

“ **Hello there, White Wolf!** ” Geralt’s greeting stutters on his tongue at the unexpected nickname and dies altogether when he takes in Jaskier’s clothing. “ **So, this call is usually just to check-in and see if you have any last-minute things you may want to ask before our first scene…Geralt, are you okay? Hello? Did this bloody thing freeze aga-** ”

“What are you wearing?” Geralt almost winces at his tone, a little too sharp and demanding for casual conversation. Jaskier pauses, his brows raising a fraction before he must look at himself in his camera and smiles, bright and wide. Teeth framed by rose-coloured lips.

“ **Oh, I was having a video session with another client,** ” he says it so casually, so honestly, that Geralt isn’t put off by the idea that Jaskier had just been…entertaining someone else. Rather, he found himself more hung up on the lingerie Jaskier somehow pulled off so damn effortlessly. “ **Geralt…** ” the tone of the writer’s voice made Geralt’s face burn. It was the same tone Jaskier would use each time he managed to catch something Geralt was interested in, but couldn’t voice it.

“ **See something you like?** ” The question is flirtatious but sincere - Jaskier only ever seemed to be sincere around Geralt, somehow even when he was teasing. Sometimes, especially then. “ **I mean to ask if there was something specific you’d like me to wear for our session today?** ” Geralt almost snorts, because that had been a question of his too. “ **I** **f you like this little number, I have others…what’s your favourite colour?** ”

“I…” Geralt trails honestly lost for how to answer Jaskier.

“ **Or you could pick something for me to wear, during our scene,** ” he offers instead, his annoyingly boyish yet endearing face tilts to the side a little, “ **would you like that?** ”

Everything - barring Jaskier’s rules - was on Geralt’s terms. From what they had planned to do, to…well, apparently this, too. It still surprised him, every time Jaskier would somehow manage to find the words he was missing, and yet always leave the final decision up to Geralt. The responsibility of the choice was freeing, somehow. It sounded oxymoronic, even to him. But the control Jaskier handed to him, the _trust_ he was putting in Geralt to handle it - handle _him -_ was unlike anything Geralt had in the past and… _fuck_ did Geralt love it. The military had given him order; his team gave him command over them, to an extent. But this was a different kind of control entirely.

“I’d like that,” somewhere during their conversations during the week, Jaskier had managed to get Geralt to form whole sentences instead of the monosyllabic vernacular he generally used around those outside his immediate circle. Jaskier had made a point to do it, in fact; “ _this won’t work without clear communication, love. So I’ll need a better answer than that,”_ Jaskier told him during their second video call, and Geralt did his best to comply since.

“Is there something specific I should wear?” Geralt asks, eliciting a chuckle from the younger man, “or bring?”

“ **Well I do require pants, at the very** **least,** ” Jaskier teases, and Geralt finds it so easy to relax around this man, chuckling to the silly joke. " **We don’t want the neighbours complaining...though I don’t think they’d mind much, with your lovely bottom.** " Jaskier had reassured Geralt that he didn’t, in fact, have neighbours. The duplex was apparently owned by his editor, and he was renting the one half of it until he could get his own place. _Are all escorts this forthcoming with their personal lives?_ He’d wondered but didn’t dare ask. He asking the question could very well risk Jaskier clamming-up on him, making their chats more stilted, and Geralt…didn’t want to analyze why the possibility bothered him so much.

“ **Something comfortable is all you’ll really need** ,” Jaskier says a moment later, his smile turning into a flirtatious smirk when he tacks on with a wink. “ **Perhaps an extra pair of pants, just in case.** ”

“I’m sure I have something,” Geralt hums, content on listening to Jaskier list off the rest of their first night’s itinerary.

* * *

Jaskier sits back in his seat and huffs a deeps sigh after ending the video call with Geralt. He hadn’t been lying about the reason for the video calls, not really, anyway. Though he would be hard-pressed to admit he ‘required’ so many calls from clients before their first session with him. Usually, it was the call on the day-of that only really mattered after the initial meeting. Emails would follow if the client had any questions to iron out final details and questions, but near-daily calls? That was new, even for Jaskier. But he couldn’t help himself.

Jaskier only took on new clients through recommendations, something he’d learned early on saved him a lot of problems down the line - like hospital bills and police reports, to name a few. The recommendation allowed him the peace of mind that he wasn’t dealing with a total stranger. He preferred a certain level of formality and distance between him and his clients, as it made the risk of them accidentally beginning to get attached to him easier to stave off. However, there were exceptions to the rule. A handful of other clients - and former clients - that he’d actually befriended, like Triss and Yennefer. The two women seemed to take an active interest in Jaskier’s life after he’d been hired by them to help them work out some marital kinks, literally and figuratively. They even had brunch every other Sunday. And apparently, they’d thought Jaskier was just the man to help Yenn’s _ex-husband_ out of his 'slump,' as they'd called it. Geralt, surprisingly ( _or was it unsurprisingly?_ ) proved to be yet another exception, right from their first meeting.

Geralt was an imposing presence, but not in any way Jaskier saw as negative. No, instead he was someone Jaskier found himself surprised to be hired by. Geralt was undoubtedly handsome, a blind bat would even admit as much, but there was just _something_ about him that caught Jaskier’s eyes the moment he saw the man on his doorstep. The more they spoke, the more Jaskier realized what that pull to Geralt was; he was an untapped well of potential. _I've found my_ _White Wolf,_ had been Jaskier’s first thoughts upon seeing the man and knew he’d found his muse before Geralt had even spoken. Jaskier didn’t know if it was upsetting or thrilling that the man had no idea about what lingered within him, but Jaskier felt both lucky and selfish to be the one to peel back his rigid layers and discover what lay beneath.

He’d been telling the truth when he admitted to Geralt he was just as invested in this as Geralt was. Since meeting the man and getting to know him a bit better, Jaskier really had managed to move past his writer’s block. Every call with Geralt left him inspired. For the first time in _months,_ Jaskier's fingers were scrambling across his keyboard, hardly able to keep up with the ideas in his brain. Filavandrel, his editor, had been elated to receive the new chapters of Jaskier’s new endeavours to the fantasy genre. What he thought of those chapters, though, was yet to be decided. _Speak of the devil,_ Jaskier thinks with a spike of anxiety. A chiming a tune sounds from his laptop's speakers while his editor’s name pops up onto the screen for a call, with a deep breath and brave face, and answers.

“Well if it isn’t my favourite-

“ **Did you actually write this?** ”

“- _dickhead,_ of course I wrote it!” Jaskier exclaims, maybe a tad dramatic, but he’d blame that on his background in the Dramatic Arts.

Filavandrel snorts a laugh at the insult. Over their years working together, harsher words had been exchanged, after all. Jaskier watches as his editor skims through the first printed copies of the chapters he'd managed to crank out over the past week, trepidation a thick sludge in his gut. _Did he not like it? Oh shit, he hates it, doesn't he?_ Filavandrel was nothing if not honest with Jaskier about his writing. Making the switch from poetry to full-length novels had been a big creative leap for Jaskier, especially when that leap centred around dragons and trolls and brave warriors. It was a whole new realm for Jaskier’s imagination and skills. More than once, he’d almost quit. He was a rather good poet, but it just wasn’t where his heart or mind truly lay. Not anymore, anyway. Fantasy was the world he always dreamed of delving into, for as far back as he could recall, and with his escort earnings able to cover Filavandrel’s - honestly rather generously cheap - rent for the duplex apartment, Jaskier new it was now or never.

“Is it that bad?” Jaskier finally has to ask when his editor says nothing and just keeps flicking through the pages of Jaskier’s writing.

Finally, _finally,_ Filavandrel meets his eyes through the laptop’s camera, “ **I never knew you to be insecure, Jask.** ” Which was bullshit, because from their pompously prestigious university life together to now, Jaskier was probably the _most_ insecure person either of them knew. But…the lilt in his voice had the writer perking up, and the slow-growing grin actually gave him _hope_ that- “ **the main character, White Wolf, is actually very compelling and complex for all of the three words he speaks.** ”

Jaskier actually feels his stomach swoop and his heart _soar._ Filavandrel’s honesty, thus far, has meant Jaskier hearing that characters have been too flat, too much, or _not enough._ He knew, despite the hurt, that Filavandrel wanted Jaskier's best work, and pushed him until that was _exactly_ what he produced. Jaskier had several prizes for his poetry to prove that Filavandrel’s tough-love really was from a good place. Especially now, when he hasn’t been published in almost in two years. Filavandrel could have very easily left Jaskier in the dust instead of helping him during his ‘hiatus.’ _Do_ not _start crying in front of your editor!_ He internally reprimands himself, only for another part to ague back, _let's be honest, it wouldn’t be the first time._

 _“_ **And where the hell did you think up ‘Witchers?' Actually, never mind, I feel trying to figure out how your brain works will break mine,** ” the jest gives Jaskier the time he needs to gather his bearings but doesn’t bother stifling his smile. Though it seems, neither does Filavandrel. “ **All in all…this is good, Jaskier. _Really_ good,**” his editor’s voice is sincere, maybe even a little excited. **“I’m actually curious to see what happens after the Blaviken massacre, the Wolf deserved better than to be chased out of town.** ”

“Spoilers, sweetie,” Jaskier teases. Filavandrel rolls his eyes, though Jaskier can’t help thinking, _he does deserve better, he really, really does._

“ **This is a great start, Jask, keep it up,** ” his editor adds, flipping to the start of the draft and skimming through it once more.

“I intend to,” and wonders just how deep that answer goes, eyes flicking over to the clock on his monitor. _Just a few hours to go._

“ **Oh, and Jaskier?** ” Filavandrel calls to him, gaining the writer’s attention. It’s the moment he sees the shit-eating grin that he knows- “ **nice lipstick.** ”

Jaskier feels his face set aflame but laughs all the same as his editor hangs up. This wasn’t the first time Filavandrel’s teased him over his side business, but he knew it was all in good fun. The man would deny it to his dying breath, but Jaskier knew he cared. _The White Wolfthought so too,_ he thinks with a giddy grin as he sits back in his seat, to no one but himself. Wondering if it would give away just _who_ had inspired his White Wolf’s newfound complexity if he gave the character long, moonlight hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, steamy times are coming up next, I promise! xxoxoo


	3. Command Me to Be Well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to say, thank you SO MUCH for everyone's support for this story so far! I enjoy hearing from y'all, so I really appreciate the time taken to leave your thoughts! That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter!! xxoxoo

Geralt feels almost as he had a week ago, sat in his car outside Jaskier’s duplex. His hands flexing on his steering wheel and questioning the life choices that lead him here. Except, this time he knew what was waiting for him behind the doors to apartment 6969 - _that_ seriously _couldn’t be a coincidence._ He and Jaskier had ironed out all the details for their first night together. It was all ready to go, and now all Geralt had to do was…well, _go._ But that was proving to be the difficult bit. What if he messed up? _Jaskier gave you his safe word to void that,_ reason answers his doubt, and yet he _still_ cannot bring himself to move.

 _This really can’t keep being a thing,_ he thinks with an annoyed huff after managing to _not_ jump out of his skin when his ringer goes off. Answering the call, he almost tells Yen to bugger off. He didn’t need his ex-wife cheering him on right before a _scene_ with someone she’d recommended he _hire_ and-

“ **I can see you, y’know,** ” Jaskier’s voice kills the words before they can escape past his teeth, and he’s grateful for the save from looking like a fool.

Turning his gaze from the dashboard to the first-floor window, he sees a brown mop of hair and a soft grin in the distance, “sorry, I just…” _I’m so fucking nervous I’ll mess this up,_ he thinks but doesn't dare say. How can he without Jaskier laughing at him? Without the man realizing he’s wasting his time with someone like Geralt-

“ **Geralt, what’s my safe word?** ” Jaskier asks instead, and his answer is immediate.

“Chameleon.”

“ **What are my top three rules?** ”

“No changes to the agreed-upon scene,” Geralt couldn’t imagine doing more than what they planned, anyway. Especially when _that_ alone was scaring the shit out of him. “No extensions on the time set, and no sex on the first meeting. Jaskier why-” he stops, catching on to the writer’s reason for asking the questions. He can almost _feel_ Jaskier gloating from within his car when he sighs.

“ **I’ll see you in a moment then, Geralt,** ” Jaskier says pausing to tack on, “ **oh, and the door is unlocked so just let yourself in,** ” before ending the call.

Geralt checks himself over in the rearview mirror one last time before switching off the ignition and heading fo Jaskier’s front door. He knocks and lets himself in only after hearing a faint “ _come in”_ from the other side. With one last deep breath, Geralt rolls back his shoulders and twists the handle. Slowly opening the door to see Jaskier. On his knees. Sat back on his heels, spine straight, and hands resting on his knees.

For a split second Geralt is torn between turning around and leaving, and revelling at the moment.

First session: Commands.

“Welcome, Sir,” Jaskier greets him, but he almost misses the words over the rush in his ears. It should have felt silly, forced even. But Jaskier says it without an ounce of insincerity or ridicule, and Geralt feels something in his gut - something he had never realized was even _there_ until this very moment - begin to unwind. He’d been called ‘Sir’ back in the army, but it never felt like this. There was a… _power_ to it, Geralt didn’t know how else to describe it. It was akin to nothing he’d ever experienced before.

Geralt had read, and _re_ read the references Jaskier had sent him. He knew Jaskier would sit here for the rest of their time if Geralt commanded it. Motionless, mute, and looking somehow _regal_ on his knees if Geralt told him to. However, that wasn’t what Geralt wanted. And _that_ almost makes him start. For years (his whole life, really) Geralt had only ever focused on what his partners wanted; how _he_ could please _them._ But this… _he_ was in control of what Jaskier could, and _couldn’t_ do. That knowledge alone was enough to make his inside stir and warm. But right now, that wasn’t his priority. He allows his gaze to linger on Jaskier’s clothes; simple black sweatpants, a gray shirt that hugged his torso promisingly. _You’re in charge of what happens in the scene, Geralt,_ he remembers Jaskier telling him. And it's those echoed words in his mind that had him finally moving.

Bending had the waist slightly, he reaches out and ghosts his hands over Jaskier’s soft cheek. His hands weren’t gentle. They knew they were calloused and trained to kill, a warrior’s hands. But the way Jaskier gently leans into his hand as though it were the most gentle touch he’d ever received, makes a shiver crawl down Geralt’s spine with a promise he’d been given before. Jaskier's eyes, baby blue rings a thin line around widened pupils stare at him with a _trust_ that makes something deep - something _primal_ \- in him purr in satisfaction.

“Let’s get you changed. Stand,” Geralt instructs, straightening up as Jaskier gracefully - fluidly - moves to stand. They're close, _so_ close he can see the flecks of gray in his eyes. _You can kiss me, on our first night,_ he suddenly recalls Jaskier saying. Which is what has his eyes to flicking down to the younger man’s lips for a moment. Okay, maybe longer than just a ‘moment,’ but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind. “Show me your clothes.”

Jaskier told him not to ask, but to _tell_ him what he wanted. They'd both consented to this. Agreed to Geralt controlling him and his actions. The concept was suddenly a reality the moment Jaskier smiles at him - the approval in his gaze was not lost on Geralt - and takes his hand. They had time. He wanted to enjoy this, this breath of _fresh fucking air_ Jaskier had granted him.

For once, Geralt is surprised to find his entire focus rests solely on Jaskier as he guides him up to the second level of the duplex instead of their surroundings. His eyes catch on what looks like photos of Jaskier in… _university, maybe?_ on the walls. Of more books and instruments that are strewn about, but doesn’t take in more than that. Because his hand burns where Jaskier holds it, gentle and entwined with his slender, smooth fingers. Nothing like Geralt’s large time-hardened hands. This really was Jaskier’s home; it was lived-in and homely. But his army training takes a backseat to his role as Jaskier’s Dominant, something he never thought possible, in all honesty. However, right now nothing but Jaskier mattered to Geralt, and that knowledge was freeing as it was terrifying.

The selection Jaskier had set out on his bed for Geralt’s choosing was simple, which he was grateful for. Commanding Jaskier to kneel by his feet while he decides what he wanted the man to wear sends a thrill through him, especially when the man does so without a moment’s hesitation. From the handful of lingerie set out before him, Geralt finds himself gravitating towards a black lace camisole. Pairing it with, what looks like, boxer briefs but made out delicate of white lace. Geralt wasn't a fashion connoisseur by any means, but he imagined the stark colours and delicate designs would compliment the young man.

“Change into these, fold your clothes and set them on the bed,” he holds out the clothes to Jaskier. _Nudity is fine too,_ Jaskier had told him a few days prior, but Geralt knew that would be too much for their first night. For him, anyway. Though he pauses. Remembering how Jaskier had looked earlier that day, and adds, “put on kohl liner, if you have it, then meet me downstairs.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jaskier answers softly, a slight haze to his tone but from his expression Geralt doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.

He watches Jaskier undress for a moment, taking in the sight of pale skin that reveals itself as he strips off his shirt. True to his command, Jaskier neatly folds up the shirt before moving to his sweatpants, but Geralt doesn’t remain to watch the rest. He trusts Jaskier to follow his instructions and…that realization catches him by surprise. But he finds he enjoys the trust. Geralt heads back to the living room where this had all begun and claims the same single-seater armchair as last time. He breathes deep but doesn’t find any anxiety dwelling within him to release. Instead, Geralt feels more grounded than he can ever remember being. _What the hell does that mean?_ he wonders, hands running down the length of his thighs. But is unable to dwell on the question long when he sees Jaskier enter the living room, standing at attention at the end of the staircase. His smile is soft, pliant almost. And not for the first time, Geralt feels his cock stir in his jeans at the sight of him.

“My shoulders are stiff,” he says, watching Jaskier intently, “I’d like a massage.”

“Of course,” Jaskier replies, walking over to Geralt and around to the back of the chair without hesitation. “Would you like to take off your shirt, Sir?” Jaskier whispers into his ear. And for the first time since Jaskier had taken his hand, Geralt feels a sharp pang of uncertainty bloom in his chest.

 _He’ll find out one way or another during these sessions,_ he tells himself, almost viciously, _it may as well be now._

Geralt’s answer is lost to him. His heart a thundering staccato in his ears, but reaches for the hem of his dark Henley all the same. Pulling it over his head, he tenses but waits. Waits for the inevitable he _knew_ was coming. It always came, after all. Geralt knew people found him attractive, but many changed their minds when faced with the scars and burns that marred his skin. Even Yennefer hadn’t been immune to his gnarled skin during their marriage. She'd always been hesitant to touch whatever new scar his latest tour had gifted him with. He hadn't blamed her, in all honesty. Some days, he found it hard to look at _himeself._ There were partners that fetishized his scarring, which would immediately turn Geralt off while feeling like it's own kind of hell. And partners that didn’t mind were rare. It was easier, not to be looking at Jaskier as he waited for the inevitable gasp of horror. Or maybe just a groan of disgust, if Geralt was really lucky. His lungs burned as he held his breath, waiting for Jaskier to break the scene and ask how he’d gotten them like so many strangers felt was their right to do, but nothing came. Nothing, except gentle and warm hands that rested on his shoulders, giving the tense muscles beneath them a gentle kneading.

“May I, Sir?” Geralt didn’t know what Jaskier was asking for, but he nods all the same. He knew she was supposed to use his _words,_ but God damn it they were lodged in his _throat_ and- the first kiss pressed against the crook of his neck, on the tendons that ache so badly in the winter from a bullet that had torn through them almost a decade ago.

Geralt can’t help the shaky breath he releases, his lungs long-past screaming for air. His aching knuckles come to attention in the seconds following, when they finally relax from their death-grip on the chair’s armrests. The next kiss is lower, on the curve of his shoulder where Eskel had accidentally knifed him during their training. It had been Geralt’s fault, he’d been distracted that day; Yennefer’s lawyers had called him about the divorce papers that morning. Eskel’s apology had been getting Geralt blindingly drunk, and that had been enough for him. The third lands on the pulse of his neck. It’s the longest of the kisses, and lingers long enough that Geralt feels his jeans tighten and something else - something _new -_ ache deeply in his chest. There wasn't a scar there.

“Tell me about your day, Jaskier.” It was something Jaskier would do at times during their video calls, but this was the first time Geralt had asked. He worries, for a moment. It’s crossing a line, but feels his shoulders slowly beginning to relax when the man hums.

“I spoke with my editor today,” the man’s voice is gentle on his ears, and Geralt can almost hear the smile in it. It eases him in a way he didn’t know he was capable of around a near-stranger. “Apparently he loved my first few draft chapters, then I got excited and decided to kill time by working on the next scene…”

Jaskier’s hands are gentle but thorough as they knead at the knots in Geralt’s shoulders. He listens while the young man talks, eyes slowly drifting shut as he lets Jaskier’s warm baritone wash over him. Jaskier had said this session was about building trust between them. A chance to “feel each other out,” as he'd put it. Apparently, Domination wasn’t purely sexual in and of itself and Geralt had been intrigued by that. Yennefer was a free spirit, never able to settle and he would have never dared to force her. However, it always left Geralt at a loss. Unsettled. Not knowing what could happen at any given moment. He’d thought there was something wrong with him. He wasn’t a control freak by any means, at least, that’s what Jaskier told him.

“ _You crave control, Geralt, but not in the way you think. You didn't want to control Yen's actions or choices, but trust them.”_ he’d said during their first video call, _“A misconception is that the Dominant is in absolute control. And while they technically they are, it's only because their submissive allows it. A Dominant’s control comes from care for their submissive, and the trust given to them by their submissive. The submissive surrenders to the Dominant’s will, knowing that their Dominant will only do what is best for them. It’s a relationship built on trust, as blind as it may be at first.”_

Jaskier’s words had echoed through his headthe moment he’d spoken them, long after their call had ended. It was…exactly what he’d longed for, but hadn’t known it until Jaskier had spelt it out for him. Yen was a force of nature and he would always love her, but she never trusted him in that way. And Geralt could fully acknowledge that he hadn't trusted her in that sense, either. They’d been together since university, two dumb kids tripping over themselves for each other without _really_ learning who they were or what they wanted. However, Yen found her match in Triss, and Geralt meant it when he said they were perfect for each other. Triss's ability to ride through the waves of Yenn’s actions and emotions was admirable, and so was her own tenacity in being able to match Yenn’s intensity. It was truly a sight to behold. Triss gave Yen something Geralt never could, and he'd never begrudge her for making Yen happy in ways he couldn't. They’d found themselves in each other, and for the first time in his life Geralt was beginning to understand how that felt.

“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is rough, deep with an emotion he doesn’t care to explore right then, “come here.”

He almost regrets it when Jaskier's skilled hands leave his shoulders, almost. But the moment he sees the man, the serene look on his face, the _trust_ there; Geralt knows he’s done for. He takes Jaskier’s hand and gently guides the young man onto his lap, where the writer straddles on his aching hardness and settles. But that relief isn’t what Geralt is after. No, instead he cups the man’s strong jaw with a silent question. It's Jaskier, who leans in to meet Geralt’s lips for a kiss. It’s not ravenous or uncontrolled, but slow and filled with something Geralt doesn’t know how to express with words. It's perfect, to Geralt. Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s bare shoulders and presses closer, the lace surprisingly soft against Geralt’s scarred chest.

Geralt’s hand moves to the back of his head while the other flexes on the man’s hip where it rocks, slowly, against his. He grips Jaskier’s downy hair and relishes in the man’s soft moan, a rumbling groan of his own soon following when Jaskier licks at the seam of his lips. He’s a perfect weight in Geralt’s lap. His body both firm but pliant against Geralt’s hardened planes. The grip on Jaskier’s hair gives Geralt better control over the kiss, but he knows the power lies with Jaskier. He could end this with a single word. Could very easily bring everything to a screeching halt. But Jaskier doesn’t, and it's that knowledge makes the older man’s head spin. Instead, Jaskier moans against Geralt’s mouth, hips rocking down just a bit more firmly against the bulge in Geralt’s jeans. Geralt moans louder than intended when he feels that Jaskier isn’t unaffected by this, either.

Geralt feels something in him settle into place. Something he’d never known was out of place, to begin with. Pulling back from the kiss, just enough to stare up into cerulean eyes framed by black-liner, finding them almost swallowed by dark pools of his blown pupils. Jaskier is flushed, beautifully so. High cheekbones painted almost as scarlet as his kiss-bitten lips. He looks so gorgeously debauched. Geralt was the one to do this, and Jaskier trusted him throughout. It’s humbling as it is empowering. It makes his head spin and heart rabbit in his chest. It’s enough to make Geralt want _more,_ but this isn’t what this wasn’t about ‘more.’ This was about trust, about learning and Geralt finds himself wanting to know every _inch_ of the man above him in every way possible. Jaskier moves a hand to rest on the side of Geralt’s face. His thumb traces over Geralt’s cheekbone as he stares down at him, plush lips caught between his teeth. Geralt feels his heart _pound_ in his chest when it looks like Jaskier's about to speak-

The gentle chiming that sounds over Jaskier’s stereo speakers breaks the moment. Shatters it, almost. Jaskier lets out a soft, breathy laugh as he straightens up. When he moves to stand, and Geralt doesn’t stop him. This was a scene. A session Geralt paid for and Jaskier was simply delivering on his end. He couldn’t begrudge the man for doing his job, nor for his own rattled feelings when Geralt was yanked back into the reality of what this all was; a transaction. Even if that fact leaves an unexpected acrid taste in his mouth. Geralt stands, adjusting himself to something less painful in his jeans. Jaskier takes it in stride. He’s probably used to this, even if Geralt isn't. His logic respected the professionalism of the younger man, but his stirred emotions were a bit slower to catch up. _You knew what you were signing up for, Rivia,_ he reminds himself. Forcing himself to return Jaskier’s smile, as best he can.

“How do you feel?” is his first question to Geralt. Even now, the young writer stares at him with such _sincerity,_ Geralt isn't sure what to do with it. “First times can always be a bit hard-“

“Unexpected,” Geralt says and tries finding a better answer when he sees Jaskier’s smile fall ever so slightly, “I didn’t know what to expect coming into this, but…it was good. Better than good, honestly.”

Jaskier’s smile is bright enough to make the sun envious, and Geralt catches himself thinking he could stare at it all day if Jaskier would let him.

“You were amazing, love,” Jaskier’s voice softens, a little spark of playfulness shining in his bright eyes when he takes Geralt's hand and adds, “better than amazing.”

Geralt feels his face flush but doesn’t bother trying to hide it. Jaskier told him this was about trust, and Geralt already found himself trusting the man with these little vulnerabilities. A lull of silence falls over them. It’s comfortable, and Geralt finds himself never wanting it to end. Only if it means Jaskier won’t let go of his hand; won’t take back that bit of warmth Geralt had never known he’d been craving so dearly.

“Same time next week?” Jaskier asks and for the first time, his voice is slightly hesitant. Geralt finds he hates the hesitance. Hates that Jaskier feels unsure after the moment they’d shared - because it _had_ been a moment, even if only for Geralt.

“Same time next week,” he replies and tries to etch the Jaskier’s smile into his head.

Geralt realizes, at that moment, he only ever wants to see Jaskier smile because of him.

For the first time in 37 years, Geralt feels he’s finally found someone who _sees_ _him._

The only trouble is, the man who does is paid to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeeee some steaminess and angst! I couldn't help myself haha! I hope y'all enjoyed it, and I hope to see you for the next chapter! xxoxoo


	4. An Excuse to Talk to You

There was a common misconception about the dynamics between a Dominant and their submissive. Aside from the obvious misunderstandings, such as those that believed such kinks were reserved for "people with problems” - Jaskier always rolled his eyes at the idiocy of such statements. But no, the main misconception he usually faced was more obvious; that submissives were powerless to their Dominants. A part of him always felt bad for people who believed that because he knew it prevented them from exploring just how _empowering_ that kind of power-dynamic could be. Though, to be fair, _he'd_ believed the same, at first. It wasn’t until his second year of university that his, then girlfriend, Priscilla showed him what those dynamics _truly_ entailed.

It had been both eye-opening as it was some of the best sexual experiences Jaskier had ever had with his once-Domme. Priscilla had been an attentive Domme. Lovingly tender, but ruling with an iron-fist during their scenes. She’d taught him the true _power_ submissives held in their submission, and allowed Jaskier to explore parts of himself he never knew he could draw pleasure from. She’d taught him the differences between lust and love, how to draw those lines in the sand of his mind to trust one-time Dominants and Dommes without letting his heart get the better of him each time. What they had shared had been lust, pure and simple, which was why they couldn’t last; they were too much alike in too many ways. But he would always love her for the lessons she’d taught him.

Which is what made this all the more embarrassing.

“Stop laughing and _help me,_ woman!” Jaskier huffs, not for the first time, at the cackling blonde on the other side of the video call.

“ **I’m sorry Jask, but this is just…it- it’s so _you_ I don’t even know why you’re surprised,**” he groans but knows Priscilla has a point.

For as long as she’s known him, but longer for Jaskier, he’d always worn his heart on his sleeve. Falling in love with people at a first glance, for better or worse. Little miss Stael had proven as much, as early as Jaskier’s elementary school years. She’d always picked him during _Duck, Duck, Goose_ in class play-time, and that had been enough for Jaskier to write her a - albeit adorably horrid - poem professing his love for her. His first poem, he recalls a little fondly. He was a romantic, to put it mildly. But this…this was _different_ damn it!

“Priscilla, you don’t get it,” he starts, a little hesitant because _she’d_ only ever been the one to do what Geralt had done _so easily,_ on their _first session_ no less.

Something in his tone makes Priscilla’s laughter taper out, the attentive tilt of her head and non-judgmental eyes enough to settle his anxiety, “ **what don’t I get, Jask?** ”

 _I’ve found my muse,_ but that didn’t feel like enough. _I think I’m falling for this man,_ but what else was new for Jaskier? “He made me hazy, Priscilla.”

The blonde Domme could be considered, for lack of a better term, Jaskier’s ‘madame’ in a lot of ways. She’d introduced him to escorting when his parents cut him off during his third year of university. After they’d told him they would no longer support his “childish fantasies” of being a writer, despite him proving himself time and again as an accomplished one. To the Pankratz family, it was the real-estate business or disownment, Jaskier settled for the latter. However, Priscilla had not only championed his passions but gave him a way to do it. He’d always be grateful to her for never giving up on him, even when he’d given up on himself for a time.

She was the one who taught him the ins and outs of escorting, but unlike him, this was her primary profession. She was a well-renowned Domme in the Kink Scene, and having her as his mentor has been a gift in and of itself in many ways. However, it was _because_ she’d been his teacher, that she understands the _gravity_ of Jaskier’s statement. Jaskier enjoyed subbing for the odd Dom and Domme here and there, but _she_ had been the only one to ever get him to reach Subspace. _Until now_ , anyway.

“ **How long have you been scening when him?** ” She asks, suddenly all business, but he knew her well enough to see the spark of intrigue in her blue eyes.

“That’s just it, it was our _first_ scene together,” Jaskier replies, running a hand through his already mussed hair. “No sex, aside from some friendly humping anyway. He’s new to Domming, it’s almost painfully obvious to see. But with just a few commands and a _damn_ amazing kiss, I already felt myself _dropping,_ Priscilla.”

“ **What did he do about it?** ” Her tone changed slightly at the question, and Jaskier understood why. Dropping into Subspace left submissives vulnerable, and in a very easy position to be taken advantage of if the Dominant wasn’t a good person. Jaskier’s gut clenches at the thought of being used in that state against his will, but somehow deep down, he knew that wasn’t something he feared Geralt doing.

“He didn’t know it was happening-”

“ ** _Tell_ me he didn’t just fucking _leave_ you-**” the mounting anger in the blonde’s words makes Jaskier think she was about to book a flight from LA to London to kick the ass of a man twice her size. Though knowing Priscilla, he wouldn’t put it past her.

“-he thought I was tired,” Jaskier smiles fondly at the memory of the way Geralt had cupped his face in large, gentle hands after they’d agreed to meet the next week. “He wrapped me in a blanket, and made me tea. The man didn’t leave until I was napping on the damn couch. pretty sure I fell asleep on him, but you can’t really blame me. He’s built like a mountain, but has the cuddling capabilities of the comfiest teddy bear.”

“ **And he didn’t know you were dropping?** ” Priscilla’s tone reveals her surprise, though she does a rather good job of trying to conceal it.

Jaskier can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, “no, he didn’t. I wasn’t full-on dropping, I would have told him if I was. But…Priscilla is was _instinct_ for him, and that…”

“ **Is a sign of a good man,** ” she finishes for him when Jaskier’s words fail him, " **a good Dom,** " the words felt like they were just scratching the surface of who Geralt was, but they were still accurate.

“He really is,” and it’s the dawning of that realization that makes his heart stutter painfully in his chest, makes his shoulders slump and smile fall.

“ **Jask, baby doll, what’s wro-** ”

“He’s a client, Priscilla,” it was a cold realization Jaskier had come to the moment the alarm ending their first session rang out. A colder one when he woke up alone in his apartment after Geralt had - unknowingly - helped ease out of his haze. “I’m just his escort,” his eyes move from the screen to a sticky note beside his keyboard, the one Geralt had left for him to see once he woke up.

**_Jaskier,_ **

**_Thank you. For everything._ **

**_I’ll see you Friday._ **

**_Geralt_ **

He’d seen it the moment he'd woken up, placed beside his then-cold mug of chamomile tea. The tea Geralt made for him, without Jaskier having to even ask.He hadn’t had the heart to throw out the note. Even now, and many times before, Jaskier finds himself tracing his fingers over the scratchy font of Geralt’s penmanship. He didn’t _have_ to leave a note for Jaskier, he was simply his client, after all. He was paying for Jaskier's services. A transaction. But Geralt did it _anyway_ , as though he didn’t want Jaskier waking up completely alone after he’d gone. Just _knowing_ that made Jaskier’s heart flip almost painfully.

“ **What if he wasn’t?** ” Priscilla’s question pulls Jaskier from his morose thoughts, and it _was_ a question he’d thought of but was too scared to _explore_ because-

“But he is-“

“ **I’m saying _what if,_ Jask,**” Priscilla cuts in, never one to let him wallow in his misery without offering a way out. “ **You daydream enough for the entirety of a world hemisphere. So I’m askin’ you if he wasn’t your client, what then?** ”

Well…if Jaskier was going to talk hypotheticals, he’d probably want to jump Geralt’s bones for a start. Figure out just how _much_ that hidden cock he’d been fantasizing about since their first session was _actually_ capable of. Aside from the obvious filthy things he’d like to do to Geralt, or better yet, have Geralt do to _him._ Jaskier wanted…other things, too. More than once since their meeting on Friday, he’d found himself daydreaming of what it would be like to be the one Geralt came home to. Would he kiss Jaskier the moment he came in? Or would he hug him first? _Was_ Geralt a hugger? _Well he gives damn amazing cuddles, so I’d sure hope so, otherwise, it’d be a bloody waste,_ he thinks with a soft chuckle. He'd wondered if Geralt would stroke his hair while they watched movies; if he’d want Jaskier knelt by his feet, or laid down on his lap. The possibilities were endless, but more surprisingly, they were so _domestic._

It was nothing new for Jaskier to fawn over a rather attractive client, not by a long shot. Every escort had at least _one_ client _they_ found attractive and would think about for a while after their time together was over. However, he’d _never_ fantasized about what they would look like waking up next to him. If they’d smile and pull him closer, or slowly rouse him from his sleep with gentle touches and affectionate kisses. He could almost imagine it, Geralt’s sleepy smile being the first thing he woke up to.

“ **By the dopey smile on your face, I’m going to assume you’re imagining something sweet enough to make my teeth rot,** ” Priscilla teases, but her voice is warm. Being the only person who’d managed to put Jaskier down, the gravity of Geralt being able to do it without even _trying_ likely meant just as much to her as it did to him. “ **Give it a few more sessions, Jask, and see how things go. I mean, it could have been a fluke, or maybe…** ”

Jaskier meets her eyes when she pauses, the kind smile warming her delicate features settles his anxiety; she wouldn’t lead him astray, he knew that.

“ **It might be something worth considering.** ”

 _Maybe,_ was all he could think, too scared of letting himself hope for too much. It would only hurt, later, if Geralt pushed him away for anything more now.

“I’ll think about it.”

“ **That’s all I ask,** ” Priscilla says, her eyes darting off to the side before she mutters a curse. “ **Shite, I have a client comin’ ‘round soon. I should get ready. I’ll talk to you later, baby doll.** ”

Jaskier bids his best friend farewell and a teasing word of luck for her night before ending the call but doesn’t close his laptop. Spinning in his seat for a moment, Jaskier returns to facing the device. Though his eyes are drawn back to Geralt’s note. Worrying at his lower lip, he stares at the contacts in his video caller history. While he hasn’t spoken to Geralt since their first session three days ago, he hasn’t stopped thinking about him since. Geralt was a natural Dominant. The way he easily commended Jaskier, not an ounce of hesitance in his deep voice. He’s been with first-time Doms before, and there was usually a sense of hesitancy in their commands, their actions. Unsure of exactly how to handle someone who was fully pliant to them for the first time in a scene. It wasn’t unexpected, especially when it was new territory to someone. However, Geralt proved to be different. Geralt’s hesitance was fleeting, and all but disappeared when he entered through Jaskier’s front door.

That was another thing that was new to Jaskier. Most times, he hosted clients in hotel rooms, the most they’d see of his house was via a video chat. It helped maintain the anonymity of his personal life. Initially, he’d only planned to meet with Geralt in his home to discuss their arrangement, and that was because Yen and Triss had been the ones to recommend him. It gave him a sense of safety, at least enough of it to be okay with the man coming to his house for their first meeting. Especially with how much the women had stressed his doubts about the arrangement. Jaskier had thought the homely atmosphere of his apartment would be enough to calm the man while they spoke. But to have their first session here, too? _Why had I done that?_ Jaskier asks himself, though the answer was already at the edge of his thoughts. _You trusted him, instinctually, from that first meeting._ Jaskier wanted to be worried about how easily, how _quickly,_ he was willing to trust Geralt. But he couldn’t. Especially not after how _amazingly_ Geralt had handled him, gentle but firm. Like his touch, calloused hands that cradled Jaskier like he was the most precious thing to Geralt.

His eyes trail down his call history and stop at Geralt’s name. _I want to hear his voice,_ Jaskier fingers ghost over the laptop’s tracking pad, _see his face…see that smile again._ Geralt’s expressions were hard-won. Unlike Jaskier, whose face betrayed almost every one of his emotions. Whereas Geralt’s emotions were guarded, but each deep chuckle and smile he managed to draw from the man was akin to heaven. _But what would be the reason to call him?_ Jaskier asks himself while his fingers still longer over the tracking pad. He can’t just call for no reason, that would be too obvi- _ask him about the session! Like a…a recap, what worked, what didn’t,_ Jaskier smiles at his little scheme and requests a video call with Geralt.

Though as the ringing tone sounds from his speakers, he begins to doubt himself. It takes longer than it normally would, but to be fair, they usually planned out their calls beforehand over email. _Shit, what if he’s at work?_ Jaskier didn’t want to risk asking Geralt about his private life, wanting to maintain some kind of inane fantasy that if he asked, the man _wouldn’t_ tell him to piss off and maybe _actually_ tell him about his day. That, though, only worked if Jaskier never impeded on Geralt’s privacy. He’d hoped that maybe - _maybe -_ Geralt would feel more comfortable about telling Jaskier things if Jaskier was more open with his own personal details. _How great that strategy’s been working out so far,_ he thinks with a sigh. Jaskier’s doubts begin to get the better of him as the ringing continues. _What if I’m bothering him?_ anxiety and insecurity of this hair-brained plan begin to grip him, and he moves to end the call when-

“ **Jaskier,** ” Geralt’s voice rings out the moment his face appears on Jaskier’s screen. His voice is warm, like… _like he’s happy to see me,_ Jaskier thinks with a private smile. _Don’t get ahead of yourself,_ maybe he was projecting...but he allowed himself the little bit of fantasy for the time being. “ **This is a surprise.** ”

Some part of Jaskier, especially during those last few moments before Geralt answered, had expected the man to tell him off. Probably rail at him for overstepping boundaries and promptly hanging up before Jaskier got a word in edge-wise. Sure, a video call wasn’t a capital offence, but sometimes clients were pretty cantankerous when Jaskier wasn’t _actively_ getting their jollies off. However, before Jaskier can say anything, Geralt’s eyes dart to a point above his camera just as Jaskier hears another voice speak.

“ **Geralt, Vesemir is going to tear your ass in two if you miss another meeting,** ” he watches as Geralt sits back in his seat with a grin, and Jaskier is helpless but to stare in awe; it was a full-blown cat-who-ate-the-canary _grin_. “ **And I am _not_ covering for you _aga-_** ”

“ **The Nilfgaard contract.** ” Jaskier has no idea what that means, but it must mean something to whoever is speaking as it stops them cold. Geralt looks about ready to _laugh_ , the corners of his lip _twitching_ with it. Jaskier had never seen barely-restrained emotion on Geralt, let alone one of _amusement_. To be frank, the man would look continually constipated if it weren’t for those _dazzling_ moments of tiny expressions - longing, lustful, teasing, _content -_ Jaskier had seen. But this? This barely restrained amusement? He’d never seen it on Geralt’s handsome features until now. Jaskier feels torn between vicious jealousy for whoever is causing it, and never wanting their conversation to end just so that he can selfishly _take in_ Geralt’s beauty.

“ **Damn it!** ” the curse is an immediate reply to Geralt’s response, but Jaskier felt that moment stretch for a momentary eternity, _is the furnace on? Why the hell am I so hot?_ “ **Fine, but this is the _last time,_ Rivia!**”

A door slams in the background just as Geralt lets loose a soft chuckle almost lost over the loud bang but not entirely. Geralt shifts in his seat and turns his attention back to Jaskier, “ **sorry, work thing. We’ve had a new client recently and they’ve been particularly annoying, they're driving my brother insane, so I love it.** ”

There’s a selfish little relief, knowing the person who made Geralt grin and almost-laugh was his brother and not…something else. Though right after that relief, Jaskier feels himself pushed to a precipice. A split-second decision to be made, wherein Jaskier almost _feels_ obligated to say, “oh you don’t have to tell me about anything personal," like he’s done with clients who got the lines between escort and client muddled in the past. But as he sits there, staring at Geralt’s soft grin and bright eyes, he makes a decision. A selfish one. _We’re all a little selfish_ sometimes.

Wetting his lips, he sits forward in his seat, “the shit-eating grin you have tells me there’s more to it than that.” There's a split second there, a moment where Geralt could easily brush off his comment and ask him why he called, or-

“ **To be fair, he deserves it,** ” Geralt answers, his ghost of a smile materializing into something more real. Tangible. And all Jaskier can think is, _I did that._

“Oh now you _have_ to tell me!” Jaskier throws in a little of his signature dramatics for effect, feeling his heart flutter when Geralt huffs. Though his grin undermines any attempt at exasperation. He goes on to tell Jaskier about the time his brothers, Eskel and Lambert, thought it would be oh _so_ fun to let a raccoon loose in his apartment as a birthday surprise. Jaskier laughs until he's in stitches.

“ **Jaskier it _shat_ on my _bed!_** ” the older man guffaws over the speakers, his voice torn between indigence and humour over the absurdity.

Jaskier laughs good and hard for a while. His ruddy-red face heating up for a wholly _different_ reason when he realizes Geralt is chuckling _with_ him. Though he stares at Jaskier all the while, adding more details every time Jaskier only _just_ manages to calm his near-cackling and relentless giggles, setting him off all over again. Through it all, Jaskier forgets to use the excuse for why he called. Though, Geralt didn’t seem to need one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so, SO much for all of your support! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to seeing you lovely humans at the next one!!! xxoxoo


	5. Risk & Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier needs Geralt to know what he might be getting into...

Jaskier asked to meet Geralt two days before their next session. He wasn’t as nervous about it as he thought he might be. In fact, he could privately admit to himself, that some part of him was _excited_ to see the man in person again. Jaskier had asked to meet at a café not far from his apartment called the Rosemary and Thyme. The place was cozy, quaint even. The barista politely took his order, telling him to grab a seat and that his coffee would be ready momentarily. So, took a seat and Geralt waited. He’d arrived earlier than Jaskier’s scheduled time for them to meet, but Geralt never liked being late - contrary to what their last two meetings may have suggested.

“Thank you,” Geralt smiles at the woman as she sets down his coffee. He watches her retreat for a moment, animatedly interacting with other customers. _They’re probably regulars,_ he thinks when she laughs and pats a woman on the shoulder; he’s always been amazed by customer service workers. Geralt could barely scrounge up a smile for his friends, let alone strangers.

Shifting, he pulls his phone from his back pocket. Checking the time, Geralt counts another ten minutes before Jaskier was due to arrive. Maybe a bit longer if he delayed. Jaskier’s email from the night before had been a bit cryptic, only telling Geralt to read the linked articles and that they’d discuss them tomorrow. He decides to reread the articles until Jaskier arrives. They were based around topics Geralt had come across while trying to research the BDSM community, things like: ‘Subspace,’ ‘Topspace,’ and ‘Afterplay.’ Though on his own, he genuinely didn’t know what to believe, and what to dismiss as internet-lunacy. He was grateful for the information, trusting that Jaskier wouldn’t give him false insight and took his time reading each one, even taking down personal notes for future reference. He’d been especially intrigued by the ones that covered ‘Subspace’ and ‘Topspace,’ never knowing that such highs of euphoria and pleasure could be reached through what he’d - initially - simply thought as ‘rough sex.’ However, it was the article around ‘Afterplay’ that really caught his eye.

Geralt had felt slightly guilty, after reading it. _Okay, more than ‘slightly,’_ he thinks with a sigh. He hadn’t knowing submissives needed such care after scenes, and just about felt his insides try to strangle him with worry if Jaskier had experienced a negative drop because Geralt hadn’t been there to ensure he was okay. He’d almost called Jaskier after he’d read the articles, nearly out of his mind with worry that he’d pushed the man and hadn’t been there to care for him after the fact. However, Geralt trusted that Jaskier would have brought it up in one of their conversations if that had been the case. _It’s about communication, Geralt,_ Jaskier had told him, and he trusted Jaskier to reciprocate that communication. Though, despite that, there was still low-level coiling in his gut that he’d miss-stepped that first session. He’d stayed with Jaskier after their scene, but should he have remained until the man awoke? To _ensure_ that Jaskier was okay? Would he have been _allowed_ to stay?

After Jaskier had fallen asleep against his side, Geralt hadn’t known what to do. At the time, leaving a note seemed like the best choice. But after reading those articles, it felt woefully inadequate. _Shit, is that why Jaskier wanted to meet today? To call this all off?_ Geralt almost felt sick, just then. _No, he would have cancelled our session if that was the case-_ but Jaskier was a nice man, what if he called Geralt to this café, and not his house, to tell Geralt he’d messed up and that he didn’t want to have Geralt as a client anymore? Chose somewhere public, instead of his own home, to ensure Geralt wouldn’t cause a scene? What if-

“What’s got you into a tizzy?” Geralt’s gaze jumps from his darkened phone-screen to the man taking a seat across from him. All at once, he felt undeserving of the bright and warm smile Jaskier looked at him with.

“I’m sorry,” the words left Geralt before he could really process them, or think of a right way to contextualize and phrase them. He knew he needed to explain himself, _knew_ that those two words weren’t enough. However, before he could, and before Jaskier could do more than part his lips to speak-

“Here’s your coffee, babe,” it was the waitress that served Geralt his coffee - which, now that he looks down at it, was probably lukewarm by this point - setting down a large mug in front of Jaskier.

Jaskier says something to her, but Geralt doesn’t hear it. His focus, strangely, zeros in on the man’s skillful hands. The way they wrap around the large mug fashioned to look like a tankard of ale, brimming with something sweet. Whipped cream precariously balances on the rim of the rustically-designed mug, though it’s caramel drizzle leaks off the side. Jaskier’s index smudges some of it. Crazily, he thinks, _I don’t want this to end, not like this._ He doesn’t even know this man, not really. He doesn’t even know Jaskier's real name, whereas he knows Geralt’s. _What’s his favourite colour?_ He absently wonders, unsure of why the answer to that question seems so important, right then. Jaskier had asked him the same question, before their first scene together. Geralt hadn’t answered, not had he ever thought to ask his.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice pulls his attention back to absurdly bright, crystal-like eyes. “Geralt, love, what were you sorry for?”

The waitress was gone and it was just them again. All at once, he’s scared to say why. If he points it out, Jaskier could very well realize Geralt’s faults and decide to end this all anyway. But… _should I really continue this, if I’d mistreated him already?_ Geralt is a selfish bastard, he knows this. Has been called as such by so many bed-partners it’s an ingrained _fact_ to him, but…he just couldn’t do that. Not to Jaskier.

“For leaving,” he says, and instantly knows it’s not enough. _Use your fucking_ words, _Rivia,_ he berates himself and tries again. “I read the articles you sent me, the Afterplay one…I should have stayed, made sure you were okay. I’m sorry I didn’t, Jaskier. I…I understand if you want to call this off. I crossed the line.”

The litany of emotions that flit across Jaskier’s expressive eyes are expected, but what isn’t - and what genuinely catches Geralt off guard - is the gentle hand the man places on his clenched fist on the table between them. Something… _warm_ settles in Jaskier’s gaze as he regards Geralt, and to his surprise _remains_ there as he speaks.

“Geralt, love, you did nothing wrong,” Jaskier’s hand on his is distracting, the way his thumb strokes the back of his hand more so, but this needed to be said. _Communication is key, Geralt,_ the man in front of him is words echo in his head.

“But the article said-”

“I know what they said, love,” Jaskier interrupts but not unkindly, though his tone does silently ask Geralt to listen and he does. “I know trying to convince you isn’t going to help much, so I’m going to ask you some questions instead, okay?”

“Okay.”

“After our scene, what did you do?”

Geralt doesn’t have to think about the answer, it’s instinctual, just as it had been the day he’d done it, “put you in a blanket and made you some tea.”

“Did you leave, after the scene was over?” Jaskier’s hand hasn’t left his and Geralt finds he doesn’t want it to.

“Only after you fell asleep,” the way Jaskier raises a brow at the answer, he knows he isn’t answering the question asked. “No, I didn’t leave after the scene.”

“And those articles about ‘Afterplay,’ did they say you had to stay the _entire_ time by my side?”

“Well, no, but…” Jaskier squeezes his hand, gently.

“So I stand by what I said, love,” Geralt almost reaches out when Jaskier pulls his hand back. Almost. “You did nothing wrong. In fact, you did more than I expected you to and- no, I meant that in a positive sense. Most people leave after our time is up, right after, actually. You, on the other hand, stayed long enough to make sure I was safe and in a _sane_ state before leaving. You did everything a proper Dom should, without even realizing it.”

Geralt takes a sip of his coffee, trying to let Jaskier’s words take the place of his doubts. Jaskier wouldn’t lie to him. At least, he hadn’t so far, and Geralt saw no sense in why he would start now. Sitting back in his seat, he feels his shoulders sag a little in relief. He hadn’t realized how tense he had been, until Jaskier finally set him straight.

“So this meeting wasn’t to call things off?” He needs to know, needs to hear the words from the man himself.

“No, love,” Jaskier smiles at him again, taking a sip from his own drink. The whipped cream coats his upper lip, and the pink tongue that darts out to clean wipe it away is one Geralt finds himself wanting to taste against his own again. “Though I must confess, the articles I sent you weren’t just preparation for Friday’s session.”

The tension seeps back into Geralt’s shoulders, making his upper-back ache. Jaskier must see it because he quickly continues, “our first session actually surprised me, in a good way, if an unexpected one. Truth be told, I’d felt myself beginning to drop into Subspace, as explained in the article I sent you.”

Geralt was a little relieved to know what Jaskier meant by that. Subspace, as Geralt found out, was when submissives reached a state of adrenaline and euphoria during a scene. Though a ‘Subdrop’ was more negative, he knew that wasn’t what Jaskier meant. Subdrops seemed, to Geralt, rather scary to endure. The fall after the rise into Subspace if submissives weren’t properly cared for after a scene, but with the way Jaskier’s smile remains Geralt assumed it wasn’t the latter he’d experienced. _Thank fuck._

“Truth be told, I hadn’t expected it,” Jaskier continues, licking away the caramel his finger had smudged. “I usually just go through the motions with most clients, it’s enjoyable, yes, but never enough for me to reach Subspace.”

Something in Geralt swells with that knowledge, something primal and possessive. Though he quickly stomps it down, knowing he has no right to feel such things.

“At this stage, especially with our next session coming up, I’d only really go over the ‘Afterplay’ with a client. But given my reaction to our last session, I thought it best to get everything out into the open, to avoid any unforeseen issues. Which, ironically, makes your question become mine.”

Geralt feels his brows knit a little closer at the words, “what do you mean?”

“To be blunt, you’re still new to this,” Jaskier pauses for a moment, eyes focused on his surgery drink with a concentration that tells Geralt he’s trying to figure out how to phrase his next words. “There’s nothing wrong with that, per se. But given my reaction to our first session which, for all intents and purposes was rather tame, I have to ensure if _you_ want to continue with this arrangement.”

Geralt feels the words bubbling up, fighting to get past his teeth, but the look Jaskier fixes him stays his tongue. Jaskier knows this realm better than him, and it’s to both their benefits for him to listen to what the man has to say.

“I haven’t experienced a full-on instance of Subspace in, at least, half a decade. At least, not until our session. Well, actually no, our last session left me toeing the line of it. Had I known of the risk, I would have warned you ahead of time. Granted, I probably should have anyway, and that fault is on me. No, love, don’t look at me like that, it _is_. I felt myself floating towards the edges of Subspace, which is why I was rather quiet and pliant once our session was over. I shouldn’t have put that burden on you, especially when you didn’t know what you were facing. You handled it beautifully, granted, but I shouldn’t have put you in that position.

“Which is why I wanted you to read the articles before our next session, and meet with you today. Given our last session, I feel it’s _very_ likely I may fully fall into Subspace at our next session. And for someone new to all this, it may be overwhelming to deal with. I don’t want to put you in a position you aren’t ready for, not again. However, with foresight being 20-20, we have to acknowledge to possibility of it happening again, but to a greater extent. Which is why _I_ have to ask _you;_ do you want to continue this arrangement?”

Geralt thought his answer would be immediate but is surprised to say, it isn’t. Saying ‘yes’ _would,_ by all accounts, be easy but what of the reality? His military training forces him to consider all the possible outcomes; look over every worst-case scenario. He’d cared for Jaskier, after their first session, out of a deep instinct to ensure the man was okay. However, knowing what the _risks_ of reaching Subspace for a submissive entailed were a daunting one. What if he _wasn’t_ as readily able to ease the man out of the scene, ensuring he was safe and sane before he left? What if he missteps and _harms_ Jaskier, while the man was in such a vulnerable state? What if Jaskier was okay, only to drop negatively, anyway? Could Geralt handle that? Could Geralt _properly_ care for Jaskier _through_ those possibilities?

Jaskier was, for all intents and purposes, in control during their scenes despite Geralt’s command during them. Could stop the scene, at any time, with the use of his safe word. However, during Subspace, a submissive could lose themselves. Could ask for more pain they normally wouldn’t. Could push themselves beyond their limits. Could _forget_ to use their words entirely, safe word included. How would Geralt know to stop, then? The answer hits him, not harshly, but rather like a slow-dawning realization; trust. _And the submissive surrenders to the Dominant’s will knowing that their Dominant will only do what is best for them. It’s a relationship built on trust, as blind as it may be at first._ Jaskier’s word from their first video call, once again, ring to life in his mind.

Jaskier hadn’t said what he said as a reason for why they _shouldn’t_ continue, but rather a forewarning of what to expect if they _did_ continue. If _Geralt_ wanted to continue. Meaning… _he trusts me to care for him, if he falls._ That truth hits Geralt a little harder, leaves him a little breathless. Jaskier was in this but was waiting for Geralt to take the next step forward, _if_ he wanted to. Or it could all end here and now, if he wanted that, too. But he didn’t want this to end with Jaskier, even if he knew eventually it would. However, it didn’t have to, not _yet_. Jaskier trusted Geralt to care for him through a, potentially, extremely vulnerable experience. And right then, Geralt knew his answer.

“I want to continue, with you, Jaskier,” the answer feels right on his lips, warm in his chest without a shadow of doubt or hesitation to them. Geralt trusted Jaskier to know himself and his wants. Geralt, in turn, trusted himself to care for Jaskier if nothing else. Jaskier wouldn’t let him go through this blind, he knew. Knew Jaskier would explain everything, every possibility or outcome they could face.

“You honestly have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that,” Jaskier’s words are honest, if a little breathless. Heartfelt and genuine in a way Geralt is beginning to realize is unique to the man across from him. He sounded relieved, almost.

“Me too,” Geralt hides the smile that threatens to split his face in two behind the rim of his mug, taking a long pull until he’s able to smile at the man without looking like a fiend. Because the part that made Geralt secretly giddy, almost embarrassingly flushed as his heart picks up at the sight of Jaskier’s beaming smile, is that it’s something they’d experience _together_.

“Jaskier?” the man hums as he takes another sip of his coffee, large diamond eyes meeting his, “what’s your favourite colour?”

Jaskier’s brows raise a little, but smiles unabashed as he sets his mug down, “purple…and yours?”

Geralt knew he didn’t want this arrangement between them to end, not now. _If ever,_ his mind adds, though he tucks away the confession for now.

“Blue,” he replies. He’d work to keep this alive for as long as possible, and enjoy his time with Jaskier, while it lasted. “Crystal blue.”

He watches Jaskier, not bothering to stifle his smile this time, and etches the man’s faintly flushed face and smile into his mind. Harbouring it deep in his chest, for the day he’d no longer have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm super sorry for the delay, I try to aim to post every 5 days at the latest, but things have been pretty busy on my end unfortunately ugh.... Anyways, thank you SO MUCH for your support for this story, I adore all of you!!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I hope to hear your thoughts and see you at the next installment!! xxoxoo


	6. Power & Control (Over Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is gorgeous when his Dominant takes him apart...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! If you noticed, the rating of this story went up and for good reason haha! I really hope you enjoy this chapter!

Since their first session, Jaskier had been feeling an _itch_ under his skin. One he had long since thought could never be scratched after he’d stopped scening with Priscilla back in college. Over time, he’d gotten used to it, almost forgot about it in fact. That is, until his first scene with Geralt. The man had unknowingly brought that low-level itch to finally _fall,_ after so many years, back to the forefront of Jaskier’s mind. He hadn’t been able to _stop_ thinking about it since. Geralt had just given him a _taste_ of their potential together, and Jaskier was already craving more.

He’d distracted himself from it fairly well, keeping busy writing and planning out his novel. Least to say, Filavandrel was more than pleased with the number of drafts Jaskier was sending his way. But when that didn’t work, his communications with Geralt staved off the itch just enough so that he could focus on the rest of his affairs without it distracting him. For a while, anyway.

When Jaskier had asked Geralt to meet him at the Rosemary and Thyme Café, he’d been genuinely worried he’d leave the café with their arrangement terminated. He wouldn’t have begrudged Geralt ending it, not after Jaskier explained everything to him. The man was, as he’d even said to Geralt himself, a novice in the kink community. Caring for someone during and after Subspace could be a scary and daunting task for some, and he wouldn’t have faulted Geralt for not being ready to be the one to do it. Or worse, _agreeing_ to it, only to bail when Jaskier would need him most. Jaskier wasn’t a stranger to rather horrid Subdrops, but he’d been lucky that Priscilla had been there every time to safely guide him back to himself fairly quickly.

He knew if Geralt had agreed without taking in the implications, _he_ would have had to end things. Then and there, lest Geralt hurt him down the line. However, Geralt hadn’t readily replied to Jaskier’s prompt to the continuing of their arrangement, and secretly Jaskier had been _relieved._ Geralt _had_ looked ready to respond the moment Jaskier had finished explaining the risks to him, but instead the writer watched as his friend - _client,_ he corrects - visibly seemed to run through every scenario in his mind. Genuinely taking in and turning over the words in his head. Yen had once made a throwaway comment during one of their brunches that her ex was a military man, and at that moment Jaskier bared witness to his tactile-mind _listening_ to Jaskier’s words and really _considering_ the implications of them.

He’d been torn between hope and insecurity as he watched Geralt’s expressions in those minutes. Watching the man warring with himself over Jaskier’s confession. However, when the fog had cleared, he almost choked on elation at the decision Geralt had come to - even before he’d spoken it aloud. They’d ironed out the details; while theory still wasn’t as tangible as what they could - potentially - be facing, he trusted Geralt to do right by him. Wholeheartedly, he could admit to himself.

So for Jaskier, their second session arrives all too soon, and not soon enough.

Jaskier stares at his reflection for a moment, hands braced on the table of his vanity. He knew he was going to fall. He could already feel the haze Geralt had left him with their last time together at the edges of his consciousness. Could feel it waiting for the right touch - the right _word -_ to drag him into a haze of bliss, and couldn’t bring himself to feel frightened by it. He knew there were risks, but he _did_ trust the man - trusted _Geralt -_ to care for him if the time came; if the _worst-case_ scenario came to be.

Geralt’s care for him their first time had been instinctual, and this time he’d at least _know_ what to expect. He’d listened attentively when Jaskier explained what they could be facing, asking questions along the way for clarity. Geralt’s admission of guilt for leaving after Jaskier had fallen asleep was, as horrible as it sounded, a silent _relief_ to Jaskier. The man hadn’t wronged Jaskier in the slightest, but knowing that he _cared_ enough to _allow_ himself the guilt was reassurance in and of itself to the young writer.

Straightening himself, he runs his palms down the front of this evening’s attire. Geralt had chosen it, right before he hugged Jaskier goodnight at his doorstep after walking him home from the Rosemary and Thyme. Secretly, Jaskier had wished the man kissed him goodnight instead, but was glad he hadn’t. Jaskier’s emotions were already muddled enough when it came to Geralt, as is. _He’s a client, Jaskier,_ he silently reiterates the reminder for the millionth time this week, _remember that._ However, it does next-to-nothing for the way his heart pounds heavier in his chest when his five-minute warning alarm slowly chimes.

“Showtime,” he says with a deep breath, checking himself over one last time in the vanity mirror before heading for the front door.

Jaskier unlocks the front door, and takes his place kneeling a few steps away from it. Using the few remaining minutes to slip into the headspace he’d been subconsciously waiting to fall back into for the past week. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take as long as it usually does with other clients. Closing his eyes, he focuses on his breathing and heartbeats. Relaxing each part of himself to the steady pound within his chest. His body slowly goes lax in preparation for Geralt’s control over them; from his shoulders to his torso and legs, every inch of him slowly preparing to be controlled by the deep, soothing baritone he hasn’t been able to forget since first hearing it.

The large and loose sleep-shirt feels gentle against his skin, leaving his arms and collarbones bare. His hands, ever moving and gesturing, fall still on his bare thighs where his boxer shorts don’t reach. He feels his heartbeat, slow and clear, centring in his chest. His mind quiets, just enough for Geralt’s words to be the only thing it takes heed of. His last words, before fully giving himself over to Geralt, are to tell the man to come in when he hears the gentle knock against his front door. The click of the front door’s lock is the last sound his mind heeds before focusing squarely on Geralt.

Second session: Power, Control, and Afterplay.

He feels Geralt before he sees him. Senses his presence looming over him like a warm shade on a sunny beach, and finds himself breathing easier for it.

“Look at me, Jask,” his voice is soft, warm, and Jaskier shivers as he looks up to meet his golden-hazel gaze. “Stand.”

Jaskier moves smoothly and without hesitation, body and mind free of choice as he follows Geralt’s rumbled command. The man slowly takes him into his arms, and tugs Jaskier closer until they're flushed together. The large planes of muscle are almost pliant against his own sinew chest, and Jaskier feels himself melt against the larger man when Geralt's arms encase him. There’s no hesitation from Geralt, this time. No moment of panic as there had been - as fleeting as it was - during their first session. Jaskier was almost proud of him. One hand shifts from where it brushes over his waist, moving to rest at the back of his neck. Geralt doesn’t kiss him but runs the tip of his nose along the writer’s jaw. His other arm still holding him firmly in place.

“You smell sweet,” Geralt rumbles, his words felt by Jaskier where they’re pressed against one another. “Clean yourself up for me?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jaskier sighs, eyes fluttering closed when he feels his Dominant’s teeth nip at his neck, over where his pulse thrums beneath his flushed skin.

The large, calloused hand at the nape of his neck travels higher and grips at Jaskier’s hair by the roots. He feels a soft groan escape him when Geralt gently pulls his head back, leaving his neck exposed to the man.

“I didn’t say you could close your eyes, Jaskier,” Geralt’s words are reprimanding against his tendons. They don’t lose their warmth, but the sharper edge to them has Jaskier’s eyes opening instantly. Geralt makes it so easy to obey him, and Jaskier happily does.

Geralt’s explorations of his neck continue, and Jaskier is almost embarrassed to realize the Dominant hadn’t even needed to pull back to know Jaskier’s eyes had closed of their own accord. _How does he know me so well?_ he silently wonders as Geralt continues to lay soft kisses along his heated skin. _Kiss me, please,_ please _just kiss me already-_ Geralt’s attentions finally move from his neck to his mouth, and Jaskier relishes in the kiss just as much as he had the first time. Geralt has complete control over the kiss but Jaskier is happy to just ride the waves of his explorations, following the older man’s silent commands as he directs their kiss. He feels his body going a little more limp against Geralt’s own, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. The kiss lasts years and mere seconds to Jaskier and feels over far too soon when Geralt pulls away from him.

“Move to the living room,” his voice is calm, controlled but deeper than it had been moments ago. A predator growling at its prey. Jaskier shivers at the sound. “Keep standing and face the wall’s mirror, hands folded behind your back at the elbow…and Jaskier?”

The younger man tries to blink away the growing haze he feels encasing him, just only enough for Geralt to know he still hears him, “Sir?”

“Close your eyes, when you’re ready to continue,” Geralt’s voice is gentle against his senses. The instructions help guide his movements. They’re simple tasks, easy to follow and somewhere in his hazy mind, Jaskier knows it’s for his benefit. Simple but detailed instructions kept him steady. Grounded. And allowed Geralt to gauge his level of coherence, check his level of control until it was completely given over to his Dominant. _Which isn’t going to be long now,_ Jaskier thinks through the growing fog that swaths him like a warm blanket.

Geralt knew Jaskier’s limits, what he would and wouldn’t be willing to do. He trusted the man to push him to the edge, and keep him there. Keep him safe while he gave himself over to the haze. To Geralt’s control. His movements are slow, but not uncoordinated as he moves to complete Geralt’s orders. The plush carpet of his living room floor is soft beneath the soles of his bare feet, and his toes flex against them as he shifts his arms into position. His hands reach behind his back, holding onto the crook of the other’s elbow; his palms feel a little sweaty. Jaskier looks over his stance in the living room mirror, with the setting sun on his right and Geralt to his left, he feels beautiful and strong as he stares at his reflection. Regal almost, if he was willing to be conceded about it.

Geralt brought out the best in him, it seemed. They’d barely begun and already Jaskier’s pale skin was flushed, hair mussed but endearingly even to himself - _maybe it’s because I know who was the cause of it all,_ he thinks with a small smile. He felt clean, too clean, and wanted to be soiled and dirtied by the man not a few feet away from him. Wanted to be marked up and _claimed_ by Geralt so obviously and deeply it would be blatant to anyone who spared him a glance. Jaskier swallows past the forming lump of mixed emotions in his throat, this was his chance to be claimed by him, if only for a little while. Jaskier spared himself one last haze glance, the sky blue of his eyes almost eclipsed by inky pools of black and feels himself smile a little wider when he’s reminded that, _he did this to me,_ before allowing his eyes to slip closed. With one of his main senses taken away, his hearing sharpens. His skin almost vibrates to make up for the loss of his sight, but there is no doubt. No fear for the loss. No, instead he feels his heart pick up as anticipation runs hot and heavy through his veins.

“Your so beautiful, like this,” Geralt’s voice whispers to him, his breath fanning over the back of Jaskier’s neck. “Plaint and being so good for me,” the words are come from in front of him this time. Geralt was circling him, and again his mind conjures up the analogy of hunter and hunted; the beast circling his prey before pouncing in for the kill. The feast…and never in his life had Jaskier wanted to be eaten alive so badly. The thoughts and words make him tremble, the praise dragging him up higher and higher into the clouds of sensation; his skin feels electric with it.

He doesn’t flinch when he feels Geralt’s hand rest on his chest from behind, laying just above his hummingbird heart. Jaskier feels the other hand reclaim its hold in his hair, gently tugging it back and exposing his neck to the room around them. Geralt’s body is just close enough to his back that he feels the man’s interest ghosting over the swell of his arse. Faintly, he remembers Geralt saying he wasn’t after sex tonight, but the loss of being fucked by his Dominant is a faint backdrop to the lust that thrums through him. Hot and heady in his blood. Then it’s forgotten, almost completely, when the hand on his chest slowly travels south while those skilled lips and tongue caress his flushed skin once again. Geralt said he didn’t want to fuck Jaskier tonight, but had asked - with almost adorable hope - to touch Jaskier. To bring _Jaskier_ to his limits, and drag him over the edge of ecstasy. The submissive had happily agreed.

Geralt’s hand slows just above the waistband of his underwear, then slip under his over-sized shirt to run the pads of his calloused fingers along the trail of hair beneath his navel. Jaskier was helpless, like this, against Geralt and his strength. Against his commands and the way he oh so sweetly utters them against his skin. All of which is elevated with the knowledge that Geralt was watching his reactions through the mirror, and faintly wishes he could open his eyes to see what laid within those pools of gold. But he doesn’t open his eyes, because Geralt had commanded them closed. However, the praises that fall from the man’s lips are enough to have his heart pounding harder, deeper in his chest he feels like he could burst. He’s heard them before in many variations, but from Geralt they sound so _sincere_ Jaskier thinks he might weep.

“How have I gotten so lucky, to have you like this?” he asks Jaskier, but the submissive knows not to answer. Knows the words are only meant to be heard by him, not answered to. “You’re perfect, Jask…so perfect, I wonder if you’re even real sometimes.”

Finally, _finally,_ he feels Geralt’s fingers venture further down, under the band of his shorts to tease the base of his stiff cock. He’s so hard he could cry, and they’ve barely _kissed._ The effect Geralt had on him was immediate, but Jaskier was beginning to learn that the man would only need to _kiss_ him and it would be enough to send his blood rushing between his legs. He felt a little lightheaded by that knowledge, but perhaps it was for more reasons than one.

Geralt was an imposing presence. A towering form of muscle and strength Jaskier wanted to spend hours exploring, but not today. Not now. Geralt had told him, their last session had been about exploring each other, and this time he wanted to explore _Jaskier._ No one, not even Priscilla, was as invested in pulling him apart without giving in to their own pleasure in some way as Geralt currently was. Though he almost felt silly for being taken aback by that, _he continues to surprise me,_ he’d thought after agreeing to Geralt’s wants for this session. _How does he still manage to surprise me?_ Jaskier was good at reading people, and even with their short time together felt he was rather good at reading Geralt. And yet….

“What are you feeling?” Geralt rasps, the hand in his boxer shorts dipping lower to rest his stiff cock in the length of his palm. Jaskier’s legs almost buckle when the crown of his cock presses against the heel of it. “Tell me, Jask. I want to hear it…hear _you_.”

Geralt’s hand tightens in his hair, the pull perfectly resting on the knife’s edge of pain and pleasure. Jaskier’s moan echos throughout the duplex, it’s guttural and only _scratches_ the surface of the pleasure he feels coursing through him. The pleasure _Geralt_ sends through him.

“Good, _so_ good…” Jaskier moans, silently wishing Geralt would press his teeth harder against his neck. Mark him as his own, but knows the man wouldn’t. It was one of Jaskier’s rules; ‘no marking,’ but for the life of him he couldn’t remember why. “I feel…sensitive, and you…I feel _you.”_

The sound that emanates from behind him is almost akin to a growl. The sound of a beast before it pounces...before it _attacks._ It makes him shiver and moan, harder and louder than before. His hands tighten where they grip his forearms, nails digging into his skin to keep him steady. To keep him _good_ for Geralt. Then Geralt’s hand finally, _finally_ wraps around the length of him. But his movements are slow, lazy and drawn out. _He wants this to last,_ Jaskier thinks through his haze and finds he never wants this heady feeling to end.

“I haven’t said to stop talking,” Geralt’s words come out like a groan, and his stalled motions have Jaskier rambling again.

“I…I’ve been waiting for this, Sir,” he moans, his thighs trembling with the strain to remain upright when Geralt’s hand begins to move along his length once more. “Aching to…to _feel_ you, for you to touch me… _oh, fuck-_ Sir, please-”

“Go on,” Geralt cuts into his plea, a desperate edge to the deep baritone that washes over the submissive. And something about it gives Jaskier the courage to say what he didn’t think he ever would, not to Geralt’s face, anyway. But like this, with his eyes closed and encased in darkness, it was easier to breathe life to them.

“I’ve thought about it, about _you_ while touching myself at night,” Jaskier moans, almost choking on the words when Geralt’s hand begins to pick up speed. “Imagined what it would be like to have you over me, touching me like…like _this-_ oh fuck, Sir I…I can’t hold on much-”

“You will release when I tell you to, understood?” his Dominant’s words are sharp, almost harsh and they only serve to make Jaskier moan louder. “ _Understood?”_

“Yes…yes, Sir, I-I understand,” Jaskier whimpers, leaning a bit more heavily on the man behind him. He feels himself approaching the edge of his control but forces himself to remain as composed as possible. He’ll be good and listen to his Dominant’s commands. For Geralt, Jaskier will be _perfect_.

“Good boy,” the praise makes Jaskier whimper, a near-violent shiver racing up his spine when the man places a tender kiss just behind his ear. “My perfect submissive.”

Jaskier’s head spins, body tearing apart with sensations of too much and _not enough._ Geralt’s hand shifts along his cock, and seconds later a shiver rips down his body when his length is exposed to the cool air of the room. The waistband of his underwear is pulled taut and presses between the space of his weeping cock and bollocks. The fresh smell of sex is almost stifling but adds a whole new layer to the way Geralt stokes him and whispers his praises against Jaskier’s damp neck. He almost wants to feel embarrassed, exposed so intimately while his Dominant remains fully clothed behind him; all the while being watched, while he can’t see anything. And yet…it isn’t embarrassment he feels blooming to life in his gut, but a kind of confidence that is foreign to Jaskier. It makes his head spin and heart thump harder against his ribcage. Feels his pulse jumping wildly in his neck, where Geralt lays another kiss against the scorching skin.

“If you could see yourself, Jask,” Geralt rasps, the fist around him gaining speed, “you’d understand what you do to me…why you affect me so deeply, how unlike anyone else you are,” those final words are almost lost over Jaskier’s moans, but he hears them all the same and feels himself trembling with the strain to hold onto what little of his control remains.

“Sir, I…I can’t anymore- please, _please_ can I-” Jaskier begins to beg, his words dying on his tongue when Geralt pulls his head further back, enough to almost rest it against his shoulder while his roots sing so sweetly with pain.

“Just a little longer, my little lark,” Geralt promises him, sounding almost as breathless as Jaskier while lips brush reverently against his burning skin. “Just a moment longer.”

Jaskier whimpers, but fights to hold himself together. He could do this, for Geralt. His Dominant knew best, and he trusted him with this. Trusted Geralt with _himself_. Those final few seconds felt like the sweetest torture he’d ever endured, both he and his cock weeping for release while Geralt drove him to the brink of his sanity. It was when the felt the tears drip off his chin that Jaskier realized sobs had begun to mix in with his wanton moans, he felt too much; was toeing _too close_ to the edge without release he couldn’t _help_ the tears that trekked down his face. He felt good, _so good_ it was torturous and driving him _insane_ to be _just_ out of reach of what his body screamed for most. _Geralt knows best,_ his mind babbles desperately, but even in that desperation he holds on to the last remnants of control and obedience he has left. He trusted Geralt and would do as commanded, _listen to him, be_ good _for your Dominant and-_

“Let go for me, Jaskier,” Geralt finally, _finally_ groans a breadth away from his ear, just as the submissive begins to feel himself breaking apart. Finally, he lets go.

His knees buckle despite his best efforts, but Geralt is right there with him. Slowly and oh so carefully, his Dominant guides him onto his knees on the carpeted floor. His hand never leaving its grounding hold in hair, nor does the other slowing as it wrings out the last of Jaskier’s release from him. Geralt’s touches on his cock do not cease until Jaskier whimpers with oversensitivity, and only then does the man release him. The hand that milked his cock dry moves to wrap around his middle, while the other slowly releases its hold on his sweat hair to run through it steadily. Geralt doesn’t pull away from him, doesn’t leave an inch between them, and Jaskier breathes easier when all he can feel is his Dominant surrounding him

“You can let go of your hands, Jask,” his voice is a soothing rumble behind him, and Jaskier follows the command through his haze. His senses focusing on the hand in his hair that continues to gently massage his scalp through the aftershocks of his orgasm. “You did so well, Jask, _so_ good for me. You were perfect, my little lark.”

Jaskier feels a gentle shiver run across his skin at the praise but was too lost in his head to respond. Geralt doesn’t seem to mind, so Jaskier thinks it’s okay that words escape him right then. The man uses the arm around his torso to gently tip the writer’s back against his chest, grounding him to the world with the gentle movements of his breathing. Geralt continues to speak to Jaskier, the sweet words of praise wash over him like the kindest of caresses. Jaskier turns in his Dominant’s arms to press his face against the wall of his chest, sniffling and humming contently when he feels the man’s large arms come around him. He feels wrung out. Empty and yet somehow so full of something he can’t name. Maybe if he wasn’t so lost in his mind, he’d be able to find the words. But for now, he keeps his eyes closed and leans a bit more heavily against his Dominant. Placing sleepy kisses against his collar bones and the crook of his neck if he reaches up far enough. Jaskier lets the gentle touches and words carry him through the waves of sensations and emotions that encase him, and never once feels worried he’d be drowned by them.

”Don’t leave,” he doesn’t realize he reaches for his Dominant until he feels the man’s strong bicep under his trembling palm. His tongue feels clumsy and thick in his mouth, but knows he has to say the words, “please, stay with me.”

“I will, Jaskier,” Geralt’s words are immediate, reassuring not for what they are but for the sincerity - the _promise -_ they exude. “I’ll stay, for as long as you’ll have me.”

The words make his chest twist, even as he feels himself floating above the clouds because he has to…he has to _know-_ “then…then never leave.”

Geralt’s hand in his hair stills, just for a moment. A split-second. Though Jaskier can’t bring himself to panic; in the span of a deep inhale Geralt’s hand stills, and before Jaskier can exhale he feels the man’s arm around him tighten. His embrace was a blanket of security Jaskier had never known existed until he felt it encasing him so tenderly. His Dominant didn’t hesitate but listened. Listening to Jaskier and his words.

“I’ll never leave you, then,” Geralt’s words make the unnameable thing in Jaskier’s chest swell and tremble, and yet he still cannot bring himself to focus on it. Not now. Not yet. The submissive almost felt overly-full with that unnameable _something_ , but this time settles in against his Dominant content to just enjoy the feeling of it. He keeps his eyes closed and gives himself over to Geralt. Without doubt or fear. Trusts his Dominant to care for him, and allows himself to fall deeper into the haze that consumes him, knowing Geralt - knowing his _Dominant_ \- would be there when he woke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to start off by saying thank you all SO MUCH for your support and love for this story! I can't believe all the positive reactions for this story, it makes me so happy to hear from you all! Knowing you're all enjoying this story between these two adorable dorks makes me so happy! Thank you all again so much, and I hope to see you in the next chapter!! xxoxoo


	7. I Want for Nothing (but You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier loves to give as much as he takes, and Geralt isn't sure what that means (or what he hopes it means)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I hope you're all safe and well! Enjoy!!

Geralt kept his word and stayed, holding Jaskier through his haze of Subspace. He’d left his side only long enough to help move Jaskier onto the living room couch, wrapping him in a blanket before settling in beside him. The younger man had been pliant to Geralt’s gentle commands after he’d fallen apart so beautifully in Geralt’s arms. His responses have been primarily hums and nods, but they were clear enough for Geralt to help him move through the motions. There were no negative signs, as far as Geralt could tell. Jaskier’s minute trembles after coming down from the euphoria and adrenaline weren’t severe and tapered off relatively quickly after they’d begun. His emotions seemed to be stable though; from his rise into the clouds to the slow come-down back to himself.

While Geralt held him, sure Jaskier had dozed off in his arms, he remained by the young writer. Once he was certain Jaskier was safe, only then did he begin to let his mind wander. Jaskier had been gorgeous, _perfect_ for Geralt. His attentiveness in following Geralt’s commands, to the way he trusted _Geralt_ to help him fall deeply within himself and float in an inner-well of euphoria. Geralt had seen the process happening as he stood behind Jaskier, their reflections in the mirror, while a second-hand display, had been the most beautifully erotic sight Geralt had ever beheld. He _felt_ it all, humming through his blood and muscles, pooling like liquid fire behind his breastbone. Felt the way the young brunet was lax and pliant to him and his touches. The way he trembled oh so delicately while his cock twitched hot and heavy in Geralt’s hand.

He’d broken under Geralt’s touches. Losing himself to bliss, a _rapture_ Geralt had stoked and teased out of him. Geralt all but _shattered_ Jaskier until he was nothing more than a pliant body against his, his entire being boiled down to carnal desires and Geralt’s will. However, by the end of it all, Geralt was also the one to slowly put him back together through softly whispered praises and gentle caresses. And somehow, just like that, Jaskier was whole again. Whole and staring up at Geralt with an unfocused gaze and lazy smile that made his heart skip a beat. _I caused this,_ was his only thought as he stared down at Jaskier while they’d sat on the floor. _I brought him to this, and he trusted me to do it._

 _‘Then…never leave,’_ Jaskier’s words echo around Geralt’s head in the dimly lit duplex. He knew the man hadn’t meant them - _couldn’t_ have meant them in the way Geralt _wanted_ him to - when he had been so out of his mind. Jaskier had been caught up in the moment, and Geralt wouldn’t hold that over him. But sat here now, with Jaskier slumped against his torso and breathing against the side of his neck, Geralt could pretend Jaskier had meant those words the way he wished the younger man had.

Geralt imagined what it would be like if this were his life. Staring down at Jaskier’s sleeping face, looking so much younger when it wasn’t animated with smiles, lust, or mischief he could almost picture it. Coming home to Jaskier typing away at his laptop, nimble fingers fiddling restlessly with a mug of coffee or too-sweet tea in thought; he did that often, Geralt realized the day they’d met at the café, that Jaskier often spoke with his hands even when he wasn’t speaking aloud. Or perhaps kiss him hello after bringing home takeout, settling in beside him like they are now, after a long day for the two of them. Relaxed and natural with each other, sat side-by-side for no other reason than because that’s where they _wanted_ to be, lazying their evening away together. He pictured pinning Jaskier to his bed with its navy silk sheets and violet pillows; taking his time while he took the man apart. He could imagine it all, _wanted_ it all, which was why he stopped thinking altogether.

 _Don’t want for what you can’t have,_ he reminds himself, a personal adage he’d ingrained in himself since childhood. It hurt less to lose things, to lose _people_ when you wanted for nothing. _Because that’s worked out so well, thus far,_ he thinks a little bitterly. Geralt always told himself he wanted for nothing, and yet-

Instead, Geralt focuses back on their session instead of his personal - impossible - fantasies. Though it was a bit ironic, as Jaskier was hired to _help_ Geralt make his misunderstood fantasies a reality. _And he’s been perfect…_ too _perfect,_ Geralt thinks with an inward sigh. Carefully, he brushes a stray strand of downy chocolate hair from Jaskier’s forehead, silently watching the man’s relaxed expression.

Jaskier had been right, of course. The power Geralt held over him during their session, in truth, laid in Jaskier’s hands. And it thrilled Geralt to an unexplainable degree to be trusted with Jaskier’s body and emotions; it was an experience he’d never tire of. While Jaskier hadn’t meant his words for Geralt to never leave, Geralt had been nothing but painfully honest in his reply. He didn’t _want_ to leave this man but knew he would eventually have to. It pained something deep in Geralt’s chest to think about, but Geralt knew pain, and life had taught him how to live with it. This close, Jaskier’s beauty was almost unbearable, and Geralt gives in to a bit of selfishness when he leans in to kiss the man’s forehead.

“Hello,” a soft, sleep-addled voice greets him. Pulling back a little, Geralt is met with cornflower eyes a shade he had never thought could be real. Though everything about Jaskier seemed like a fantastical dream, to Geralt.

“Hey,” he responds just as softly, shifting his hand down to gently squeeze the man’s shoulder, “how are you feeling?”

“Fantastically wrung out,” Jaskier replies as he shifts, sitting up and raising his arms high above his head to stretch. Rolling his shoulder and neck before looking back over to Geralt, “you?”

“Never better,” and it was the honest truth, because despite the ache in his chest Geralt had never felt so relaxed as he did with Jaskier wrung out from pleasure beside him.

He expects Jaskier to get up, to maybe thank Geralt for sticking around before subtly trying to shoo him out to get some proper sleep. It was late, after all. However, what happens is exactly something he _doesn’t_ expect, and feels slightly off-kilter because of it. Though while Jaskier shifts and repositions himself to straddle onto Geralt’s lap, Geralt doesn’t complain. He doesn’t think he would ever complain about Jaskier touching him.

“Did you enjoy the session?” His question would sound innocent if it wasn’t for the glimmer in his eyes or the way his hands slowly trail from Geralt’s shoulders to his chest and back again.

“I did, Jaskier,” he answers, unsure of the younger man’s intentions but settles his hands on Jaskier’s hips all the same if only to convey he isn’t uncomfortable with their positions, “thank you.”

Jaskier hums noncommittally, but the way he holds himself tells Geralt there’s something he’s inching towards asking. And for a split-second a pang of panic runs through Geralt, worried he’d messed up during the Afterplay somehow. However, Jaskier’s expression and placement on his lap would suggest otherwise, so he calms and waits for the man to speak what’s on his mind.

“This is our second session,” Jaskier points out, though technically, their ‘session’ had ended about two hours ago. Geralt’s confusion for what he’s hinting at must be evident, as he slides his hands up to cup Geralt’s neck as he tacks on, “I came, or rather; I had a mind-shattering orgasm I haven’t experienced in _years_ if I’m being honest. But…I noticed you didn’t…”

The swell of egotistical pride at Jaskier’s words turns to further confusion at the man’s trailed-off sentence, as Geralt tries to tease out their meaning. To be fair, he isn’t _wholly_ dense and it only takes him a moment to realize what Jaskier’s hinting at.

“It’s not important, you don’t have to-” though before Geralt can finish, Jaskier cuts in while his thumb dances over the skin of his pulse.

“But what if I want to?” Jaskier’s words hang heavy in the air between them, and Geralt struggles to find an answer. “We don’t have to, love, but…you were so good to me and I want to be just as good to you.”

Geralt swallows past the lump of lust and trepidation in his throat. He didn’t want to go further if Jaskier wasn’t of sound-mind, didn’t want to risk overstepping and doing something the man _didn’t_ actually want to do-

“I’m back, Geralt,” Jaskier says without prompting, “I, Jaskier, am of sound mind and body…and being as such want to watch the lovely Geralt come apart under my hands and mouth. Only, of course, if he wants the same.”

Jaskier’s words are blunt, crystallin in their message and Geralt feels something molten twist and come alive in his gut. His hands flex on the younger man’s waist of their own accord, working to spur him on. Jaskier rolls his hips ever-so-subtly against Geralt’s, tipping forward enough to whisper hotly against Geralt’s ear, “I want to watch my White Wolf come apart for me…just like I did, for him.”

Their scene was over, Geralt’s time with Jaskier was _over_ and yet- “please, Jask…”

Jaskier’s lips meet Geralt’s before the man can fully comprehend the offer, the weight of their meaning, but kisses back just as desperately all the same. This kiss was different; it wasn’t like their first ‘tester-kiss,’ nor was it like the kisses during their sessions of reverence, submission and domination. No, this kiss was _hungry._ Desperate in a way that left Geralt breathless. This wasn’t a scene, it wasn’t a pre-agreed upon interaction. This was primal, in the moment and _passionate_ in a way that blew past simple ‘lust’ by lightyears. Jaskier was at the helm, rocking his hips against Geralt’s with a determination he had never experienced before. Almost like _he_ was just as desperate for this as Geralt was. _What a thought,_ he thinks as Jaskier’s hands impatiently reach for the belt of Geralt’s jeans, undoing them with a well-practiced speed.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts when the man pulls away to kneel down between his legs, pulling Geralt’s hardening length out as he goes.

“I guessed it, but _knowing_ you didn’t wear underwear to come to see me just makes it _better,”_ Jaskier chuckles, breathless and throaty.

Geralt worries for a moment because he hadn’t planned on sex, and hadn’t brought a condom. He knew Jaskier had a clean bill of health, they’d shared the information prior to their first session together. But he couldn’t just _assume_ Jaskier would be okay with-

“ _Fuck!”_ Okay, so maybe he was. Though Geralt can’t linger on it long, not when the crown of his bare cock presses against the tight, wet heat of Jaskier’s throat. “Jaskier, _shit-_ I…fuck-” Geralt was by no means an articulate person, he knew this, but Jaskier’s mouth rendered him into nothing more than a babbling _fool_.

Jaskier pulls back just enough for his lips to tease over the tip of his cock, before bobbing back down and taking inches more of Geralt he didn’t the first time. His hands worked in tandem with his mouth, stroking his shaft and caressing his balls. It was quick, messy and hands down the best head Geralt had ever received. It was clear Jaskier’s tongue was skilled far beyond just being able to say the right words to put Geralt at ease, or rouse his libido, and proved it over and over and _over_ as it swirled and twisted along his shaft to wring out every bit of pleasure from the older man.

Geralt felt his heart _pound_ whilst his mind could do nothing more than _attempt_ to keep up with the sensations of pleasure Jaskier so easily elicited from him. Geralt tried to keep steady and control his actions, he _really_ did but when Jaskier swallowed around him he was helpless but to thrust up into the belligerent torrent of pleasure that was Jaskier.

“Sorry I didn’t- _fuck, Jaskier!”_

Jaskier didn’t seem to want an apology for making Geralt lose all sense of himself, humming around him and pulls up for a modicum of air to say, “lose yourself to me, Geralt,” before delving back down, taking Geralt’s stiff and throbbing cock with newfound relish. And Geralt _did,_ in more ways than just the physical. He grips at Jaskier’s thick head of hair, not to control but to _hold on_ as the man focused intently to make Geralt lose his mind.

 _‘I…I’ve thought about it, about you while touching myself at night,’_ Jaskier’s confession from their session comes to life in his head; a secret desire Geralt had fantasized about that had, unbeknownst to him until a few hours ago, become a reality he’d wished to witness firsthand. How many times had Jaskier touched himself to thoughts of Geralt? Was he just saying those words to spur him on, or had he meant them? For now Geralt lets himself believe the latter as he moans out, loud and unbidden, with Jaskier’s name like a prayer on his lips.

“Oh Gods, _Jaskier!”_

The _thought_ of Jaskier, alone in that large bed of his just above them, writhing and moaning into the night as he touched himself… _Geralt’s name_ on his lips as he brought himself closer to the cliff of bliss. The thought alone was enough to drive him _mad._ Even madder was that Jaskier was here spurring him closer to oblivion for no other reason than because he _wanted to_. Plush, cherry-red lips stretched around him while Jaskier’s wicked tongue worked, sucking him with earnest and flare, and Geralt was unable to look away. His eyes meet Geralt’s, teary-eyed crystal-blue locking on lust blown yellow-hazel. Geralt wants to tell him, suddenly and all at once, that he too had passed the nights between their meetings in the same way…if he could speak.

It should have been embarrassing, how quickly he was reaching the end of his rope but Geralt couldn’t dwell on that embarrassment when he was trying to _warn Jaskier_ of it. The brunet doesn’t heed his warnings, and for a moment Geralt thinks he should push him off lest he cums in the man’s mouth. Though after the briefest of seconds he realizes that’s Jaskier’s _intent,_ and it’s that realization that shoves him over the edge. Geralt’s body stiffens as he lets out a choked-off moan, neck bowed back as his head digs into the couch cushions behind him _._ And on his lips, the man who had caused him to lose all self-control's name; _Jaskier._

The world is still fuzzy around the edges as Geralt rolls his head forward to look at Jaskier, worried he should have been better with his warning. Though realizes his worry is for naught when Jaskier sits back on his heels, grinning at him with _something_ Geralt is still too out of it to decipher. He licks the corners of his reddened, slick lips and Geralt feels his cock give a final twitch of pure _want_ at the sight. His heart is in his throat staring at Jaskier, the man looking far too endearing as he gently tucks his spent cock away with a small, self-satisfied smile. His heart beats quick and heavy, for more reasons than one. Jaskier moves to stand and its instinct that has Geralt reaching out for him, pulling him back onto his lap and kissing him with whatever energy Jaskier hadn’t managed to scrape out through his cock.

That familiar swell behind his chest returns when Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to return Geralt’s affections, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses Geralt back just as lazily and messily. Geralt tastes his musky-sex on Jaskier’s tongue but also tastes something that is so uniquely _Jaskier_ that he already feels addicted to it. This was something, something Geralt was scared to look too closely at. Scared he was _projecting_ onto it. Terrified of letting himself hope if only for the pain it would bring when reality set back in. But for now, he lets himself get lost in kissing Jaskier. Doesn’t resist when the man slowly pushes him to lay on his back onto the couch, never breaking their kiss. He feels Jaskier semi-hard length against him, but the man does nothing to alleviate it. Geralt doesn’t know what it means that Jaskier only kisses him languidly instead of trying to get himself off like all he _wants_ to do is kiss Geralt.

He doesn’t dare speak when Jaskier breaks the kiss, only to settle his head upon Geralt’s chest, neither of them does. Neither of them daring to break this moment, as Jaskier relaxes atop Geralt’s larger frame with no inclination of letting the older man leave like he ought to. Instead, Geralt holds Jaskier tighter in his arms. And for the first time in years, doesn’t _think_ of what tomorrow might bring with dawn’s new light. No, they simply lay together in the dimly lit silence of Jaskier’s apartment. Geralt’s arms never moving from their embrace of the smaller man, and Jaskier remains in his hold without any sign of wanting to leave them.

Geralt always told himself he wanted for nothing, and yet…here he was, yearning for something he could not have - not truly. _Please, let me stay,_ Geralt pleads silently to any deity that would listen, _I don’t want this to end…_

Geralt closes his eyes as their session and the _moment_ they’d just shared washes over him, coveting it; coveting _Jaskier_ like a selfish child deep in his heart. Like this was something he had the right to call his own. He listens to Jaskier’s near-silent breathing slowly evens out. Ingraining the weight of Jaskier asleep against him in his mind and heart, warm and perfect in a way he couldn’t describe. He falls asleep with thoughts of his imaginary life with Jaskier warming his heart, able to pretend his fantasy was a reality with Jaskier perfectly fitted against him. Geralt lets himself imagine it and selfishly covets that, too, before giving in to the warm embrace of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone again for all your lovely support, I love hearing from you all, it means so much to me and I hope to see you all again next time!! xxoxoo


	8. A Moment of Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“They say there's no harm in daydreaming, but there is.”_  
>  ~ Charlaine Harris, _Club Dead_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter kinda sums it up, it's not where I thought it would go but it's where it ended up and I'm happy for this moment of calm...but you know what they say about the calm before the storm ;D *Laughs maniacally from my Hobbit Den*

Jaskier wakes slowly, the lazy feeling of a good night’s sleep leaving him relaxed and languid. The sun streams in, a swath of warm light through his living room curtains; the sound of chirping birds singing their morning songs a backdrop to the steady heartbeat beneath him. It only takes a few seconds to register the feeling of a hand running through his hair, humming comfortably at the feeling of a slowly rising and falling chest beneath him; Geralt. He thinks, for a moment, that he should panic and apologize for having kept the man. However, the hand moving through his hair doesn’t stop nor stutter even as he shifts into wakefulness, and feels an unexpected amount of relief because of it. If Geralt isn’t panicking, then he won’t either.

Jaskier wants to stay here forever, pressed against Geralt’s large frame with the man’s hand gently caressing his hair, his other arm relaxed where it lays across Jaskier’s back. He doesn’t want to apologize, not for this…not when he doesn’t regret a moment of it. Slowly moving his head he rests his chin on Geralt’s right peck and is met with serene hazel eyes that glow gold under the sun’s rays. _He’s gorgeous,_ is his first thought, and the second is that he wants to wake up to those eyes from then on. However, it’s at that thought he feels a twinge in his chest because this - _Geralt -_ wasn’t his to have…no matter how much he wanted it.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, helpless to the lazy smile that pulls at his lips when Geralt shifts just enough to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Morning,” the older man hums in reply with a soft smile of his own, his hand continuing to trail through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

Jaskier knows they should speak about yesterday, about what he’d offered after their session was over but…he just doesn’t _want_ to. Doesn’t want to risk breaking this moment between them. Instead, he wants to cook Geralt breakfast, and milk the time the man is willing to stay with him; wants play-house with the man of his dreams until reality sets back in. He wishes he could stop time, just so they could stay like this. Willing reality away for as long as possible, _but it's not possible, is it?_

There’s something… _soft_ in Geralt’s gaze, something Jaskier knows he doesn’t deserve but wants nonetheless. It’s selfish he knows but decides a little selfishness couldn’t hurt, not when Geralt stares at him like he’s something to be cherished. The realization comes to him slowly, but when it settles in his chest it’s warm and undeniable; _I love him._ It should feel like a shock, but it doesn’t. Love, for Jaskier, was always something that hit him hard and sudden, left him breathless and yearning for more. Throughout his life, love was something that burned bright but quick. A flash-bang of spectacular light and sound - like fireworks - and then gone when his partners grew tired of him. They always grew tired of Jaskier. He was always too _something_ for them; too much, too aloof, too clingy, too distant. Never enough or far _too_ much. They tired of him far faster than he could ever tire of them.

Love for Jaskier was fleeting, even if it broke his heart just as painfully each time it was finally over. And something small, insecure and _scared_ worried Geralt would be the same. _But that’s not fair to say,_ he thinks, because Geralt it was different, _felt_ different somehow. Real in ways he’d never experienced before, and he feels full with it. Jaskier thinks he saw it coming all this time, from their first meeting perhaps but finds he doesn’t regret it. He knows it will hurt when this is all over, worse than he’s ever been hurt before, he’s sure. But the pain will be worth it, _it has to be,_ he thinks perhaps a little desperately.

He wants to tell Geralt, wants to tell him it’s okay if he hurts Jaskier so long as he stays for a just a little while longer, but instead settles on saying, “thank you, for staying.”

Geralt says nothing but Jaskier hadn’t expected him to, didn’t even want him to. He just needed Geralt to know that he was grateful if nothing else. Geralt was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and he’d only just _begun_ to scratch the surface. He wishes he had the time to slowly peel back the man’s layers, to discover each and every crack and scratch Geralt hid so deeply within himself. He’d fill those crevices with everything he had if Geralt would let him. Wanted to be what made the man whole, and knew Geralt could be what made _him_ whole, but ultimately knew that was an honour he didn’t deserve. Jaskier was jealous at the thought of who Geralt would grant that chance to and wishes it could be him.

 _I love you,_ he thinks but doesn’t dare say, _and I don’t think I know how not to, anymore._ For now he has Geralt and breathes steadily through his thoughts, through the pain he knows is inevitable even if he doesn’t know when it will come. _I know you’ll hurt me, but please be gentle when you do…I won’t survive it, otherwise._

Jaskier takes in the thoughtful look on the older man’s face, sleep-soft and framed with stray strands of impossibly white hair. He imagines if this is what this White Wolf would look like upon first waking before the Witcher’s mask of severity settles back on, and solemnly continuing on his Path. Jaskier almost laughs right then, because the more he thinks about his character, the more he realizes his character _is_ Geralt. Filavandrel had called the Witcher a one-note character before, and before that berated Jaskier for making the character too much like _himself_. Now, the character was perfect, and the irony was that he was perfectly _Geralt._ A sever aesthetic concealing so much depth and complexity - so much _vulnerability_ \- just beneath the surface. It was a painfully beautiful duality he hadn’t fully comprehended, until now. Until Geralt.

“What’s so funny?” Geralt asks, his voice a comforting rumble to Jaskier’s ears.

He wants to tell Geralt never thought he’d find his muse in a random client, wants to tell him just laying eyes on Geralt is an inspiration in and of itself. Jaskier almost dares to tell him he’s in love with him, “you somehow make morning breath attractive.”

Geralt huffs a laugh through his nose, the crow’s feet at the corners of the man’s eyes deepening endearingly, and Jaskier chuckles softly along with him. He has so much he wants to tell Geralt, but fear of losing this - of losing _him_ \- stays his tongue. Instead, Jaskier allows himself to laze with Geralt on his couch, content to while away their morning for however long Geralt will allow it, and imagines this to be his life. It’s a nice fantasy, he can’t lie.

“Let me take you to breakfast,” Geralt’s voice breaks through the silence of the living room several minutes later. His hand hasn’t stopped moving through his hair. “I know a place not far from here, shit coffee, but the best waffles you’ve ever had.”

“I do like waffles,” Jaskier leans forward, without thought to press a soft kiss to Geralt’s lips, and all at once worries the soft look in Geralt’s eyes will leave at the intimacy of it. What he doesn’t expect is for the man to lean into the soft peck, not deepening it but returning it. It makes his head spin a little. Jaskier slowly sits up, staring down at the older man as he remains straddled across Geralt’s narrow hips, hands resting on his chest. His hands looked so small in contrast to Geralt's larger frame, even when splayed flat against the planes of Geralt’s broad chest; Geralt made him feel small, but not in the ways he’s used to. With Geralt Jaskier felt petite and delicate, it was a strange, thrilling feeling he was beginning to love.

“Perhaps a shower first, though…what do you think?” It’s a vague enough invitation, one Geralt could easily turn down without much effort, the _join me?_ left unsaid even as it lingered in the air between them. There’s a moment of indecision on Geralt’s roguish features, a moment where Jaskier’s breathing hitches with a dismissal ready on his tongue, but something settles behind those golden-hazel eyes and-

“A shower sounds good,” Geralt replies as he too shifts, arms braced around Jaskier’s torso as he moves to sit up without jostling him too much, “think you’ll have enough hot water?”

The question is asked a breadth away from Jaskier’s lips, their implication making him smile as a shiver runs down his spine, “I think we’ll be fine.”

Jaskier isn’t sure who goes in for the kiss first, but all he knows is that one moment they’re kissing on his couch, and the next Geralt is kissing him under the hot spray of his shower. It’s a jumble in-between of impatient hands and childish giggling when one of them stumbles along the way, trying to discard their pants or laughing as they smack into a wall in a haste to toss aside their shirts. It shouldn’t be as easy, or _natural_ as it feels, but it is. Like they’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks - or _days,_ really. Geralt made it so easy to be around him; _too_ easy for Jaskier to feel like this was his life, had _always been_ his life.

Jaskier wants so desperately for Geralt to fuck him against his shower stall wall, as snug as the small cubical is around them, but can’t bring himself to voice those wants when this… _thing_ between them still so unexplored - _if there even_ is _a thing, to begin with,_ he reminds himself. Because this, Jaskier knows could all very well be in his own head, him _projecting_ onto Geralt with him inane brewed up fantasies. So instead he settles for the feeling on Geralt’s board, naked body pressed against his pinning him against the stall wall. Geralt’s narrow hips rut against his own, their stiff cocks gliding hot and wet against one another. It’s a little disorganized, and perhaps would finish quicker if Geralt would stop kissing or touching him to hold their lengths in his large hands; if Jaskier held their aching cocks in a trembling grip instead of fisting at Geralt’s hair and clawing at his back. But neither of them do it.

The pleasure of release is _just_ out of reach for Jaskier, one stroke would leave him moaning louder against Geralt’s tongue with quivering thighs, but he doesn’t dare reach out for that stroke even as the hot water begins to go lukewarm. _I want this to last,_ is all he can think, rutting his cock against Geralt’s impressive abs like a beast in heat. Geralt palms his arse but doesn’t reach for Jaskier’s - or his own - cock, seemingly content to draw this out as well. _Fine by me,_ Jaskier thinks a little wildly and maybe even giggles a little over the thought, though he can’t be sure over the wanton moaning.

It’s Geralt who breaks first, the hard planes of his larger body going taut under Jaskier’s hands. A choked off grunt and minute trembles following after the stuttering of his hips. Jaskier moves against him through it, ready to take himself in hand and follow after Geralt when- _Jesus, that’s not fair!_ Geralt chuckles as he looks up at Jaskier from his knees on the shower floor, and Jaskier has a moment to feel embarrassed that he’d said the words aloud instead of in his head. However, it _is_ just a moment, because Geralt’s mouth is on him in the next and Jaskier’s brain kind of just…blue-screens after that. _Error 404._ He knows he doesn’t pass out, is aware of Geralt’s unfairly thick arms encircling him and keeping him steady on his feet, though he isn’t sure he remembers Geralt moving to stand or when the man had had the time to begin shampooing his hair. _This is nice to come to,_ he thinks, and giggles at the unintentional double-entendre.

“I know you said you’re twenty-seven, but sometimes I think you left your sense of humour in grade school,” Geralt says, gently tipping Jaskier’s head forward to wash the suds of strawberry shampoo out of his hair, _ah so I said that out loud, then._ “You did.”

 _And that,_ “sorry love, scrambled brains, kinda happens when the mouth of a Greek God lands on my cock.” Jaskier’s smile widens at the man’s laughter and feels clear enough that he could finish conditioning his own hair, but Geralt seems content to do it for him and who is Jaskier to stop him when it feels so nice?

“I barely licked it,” Geralt chuckles, rinsing the lathered conditioner from his hair enough that Jaskier can turn around without the worry of blinding himself.

“Semantics,” Jaskier waves off, darting forward to steal a kiss. Geralt hums, a smile teasing at the corners of his skilled mouth before pulling Jaskier back in for a proper kiss. _I could live with this,_ Jaskier thinks, and thankfully this time Geralt’s tongue is in his mouth, saving him the embarrassment of accidentally saying the words aloud. Jaskier returns the favour and washes Geralt’s hair, though it’s a bit of a stretch with the man being built like a towering brick house. They manage, though.

They leave the shower stall just in time, the hot steamy spray having gone to lukewarm and teetering on the edge of uncomfortably cool by the time they turned the faucet off. Jaskier is almost shocked, with how well Geralt manoeuvres around him in the lavatory; the morning routine of a married couple coming naturally to them both. It makes Jaskier ache in a way he can’t describe.

Jaskier remains nude as he strolls back into his bedroom, ruffling his hair dry and peering over at his open closet. Though turns to watch Geralt patting himself dry as he walks out of his bedroom. A barely-concealed smile pulls at Jaskier's lips as he watches the man’s taut ass sauntering away in hunt for his discarded clothes somewhere in the hallway. Geralt probably knows Jaskier’s staring, but Jaskier can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed by that knowledge; it was a work of art you could bounce a coin off of, and art was to be admired after all. At least, that’s what Jaskier's high school art teacher had always said. Jaskier finally moves to pick out his own clothes when he hears his phone ring and vibrate on his vanity table, the call for attention is a short one and knows it’s a text before picking up the device. However, upon reading the message, he pauses.

**_Vilgefortz - Today: Hey Dandi, I know this is last minute but do you have an opening for tonight, usual place @ 10pm? My treat ofc ;) x_ **

Vilgefortz was a regular customer, a good and reliable source of income for the writer. He was high-class with his tastes of treating Jaskier which was always a perk, but a little mediocre and vanilla with his ‘appetites,’ if Jaskier was being honest with himself. Though seeing that text brought Jaskier to a thought he didn’t expect to have; _if I want this…_ thing _with Geralt, what does that mean for my other clients?_ It was a silly thought he knew, given that everything with Geralt was still so _tentative_ if it was even real but… _last night,_ _hell this morning too, it has to_ mean _something, right?_ None of Jaskier’s clients had ever stuck around this long before; none had treated their relationship with Jaskier like…well, like a _relationship_ instead of a transaction of pleasure, none but Geralt. It _had_ to mean something, didn’t it?

Geralt could have turned down his invitation to the shower this morning- _but that was sex,_ and sex was always a good motivator in Jaskier’s experience; _but then what about breakfast?_ Because up to that moment, for all of Jaskier’s fantasies, this had still just been a transaction - if a little unconventional (read: unprofessional feelings) on Jaskier’s part. But nowhere between Jaskier sucking Geralt off and passing out on the man’s chest did he hint at wanting to be taken out; nowhere in their conversations or meetings had Jaskier said ‘take me on a date you beautiful gargantuan of a man.’ No, the idea of _breakfast_ had been Geralt’s, and Geralt’s alone.

 _That_ has _to mean something,_ he thinks and for the first time feels an unfurling of _hope_ for something _more_ with Geralt. Something he’d tried so hard to stifle until now coming to life in his chest, _and maybe it’s something worth seeing through._ Jaskier turns his phone to silent and ignores the text. It was a risk, he knew, to try and dig deeper into this unknown thing between him and Geralt but… _Goddamn it, I can’t_ not _now,_ he thinks with a note of finality as he sets down his phone. Jaskier pulls out a fresh shirt and jeans, unable to stop smiling to himself at the thought while hopping and wriggling into his skinny jeans. The money would be tight, sure, but he could take up a nine-to-five job; _I was a barista in uni, I doubt much has changed in that area,_ he thinks and wonders how to spruce up his résumé into something Starbucks would find worthy.

Jaskier had no idea if Geralt even felt the same, he doubted it but was willing to let his hope convince him into believing the man felt _something_ for him. If he was wrong and this all went south, well…maybe it would be worth the heartbreak, if only because Geralt was worth _trying_ for. _I'd still have the memories, at least._

“Do you use syrup or honey with your waffles?” Geralt’s voice reaches Jaskier seconds before the man himself steps back into his room, fully dressed. “You’re naked.”

“If you consider shirtless ‘naked,’ I worry to think how you’d describe my nudist tendencies.” Jaskier titters but reaches for his fresh shirt, all the same, pulling it over his head as he says, “syrup, of course. What heathen has honey with waffles? Pancakes maybe, but waffles? That’s sacrilegious!”

Jaskier barely has his shirt halfway down his torso when Geralt pulls him into his arms. Jaskier meets the eyes that gaze at him with _something_ behind them, too well hidden to describe, but not well hidden _enough_ to not be seen. And feels that little unfurling of _hope_ blooming a bit more in his chest.

“I knew I liked you,” Geralt chuckles fondly, dipping down to press a soft, lazy kiss to Jaskier’s lips.

 _Not as much as I like you,_ wrapping his arms around the man’s broad shoulders and slowly deepens the kiss. _Yeah,_ Jaskier thinks when Geralt pulls back enough to meet his eyes, _you’re a risk worth taking._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this moment of fluff, it was fun to write! Once again I want to thank everyone for your kudos and lovely comments, it's so awesome to know so many of you are enjoying this story!! I hope to see you next chapter! xxoxoo


	9. Skin-Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can never last when it's only skin-deep...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm SO sorry for the late update, as an apology this chapter is nearly the length of two! I hope it makes it up to all you lovely readers, and I hope you enjoy it! Once again I want to thank you all for your amazing support, I love hearing from y'all! Anyhoo, onto the story!! xxoxoo
> 
> (Go to endnotes for chapter warnings!)

The bed was plush under his bare bottom and normally Jaskier would spend these few moments alone to roll around on the duvet, enjoying the feeling of the sky-high thread count against his skin. Normally, he’d be sprucing up his face with a light bit of waterproof mascara to make his eyes pop, a hint of blush to make his cheeks appear a bit more flushed and a dash of chapstick for all the snogging that was to come. Normally. But it was hard to care for the babydoll aesthetic Vilgefortz adored when he felt like he was splitting in two. It’s been _hours_ and Jaskier only felt the splintered, yawning crack in his heart widening.

_I was so stupid,_ he thinks with a lengthy sigh, _stupid to think I meant more to him than an easy fuck._ The faint sound of the hotel room’s shower a backdrop to the otherwise pin-drop silence of the presidential suite. Normally, Jaskier would be ransacking the minibar for sweets to take home, but the _thought_ of sweets just then only upset his churning stomach further. Vilgefortz never minded Jaskier pilfering of hotel sweets and snacks, said he found Jaskier’s snack-stealing rather ‘adorably bratty.’ Vilgefortz had a thing for Jaskier’s ‘bratty’ behaviour - which was an act, and a rather ironic one given he was _actually_ rather frugal with his low funds; hence the stolen goodies. But his behaviour played into Vilgefortz's tastes for what he hired Jaskier for in the first place, so it was a win-win. _Win-wins all around, it seems…Geralt got a free wank in the shower, and now Vilgefortz gets his ‘baby’ for the night. Win-win in-fucking-deed_. Jaskier got paid by the end of it all; Vilgefortz always paid and tipped well, he’d have the next two months of expenses covered, so perhaps it was a win all around. _So why doesn’t it feel that way?_

Jaskier picks at the hem of the sheer pale-pink babydoll nighty Vilgefortz asked him to wear when he’d texted him back at noon, prompt and with his usual specifications. His phone had been switched off since. _The lace is starting to fray,_ Jaskier notices but his painted nails don’t stop messing with the lace-hem, it was either that or he finally gave in to the temptation to check his phone with nothing left to distract him; so the slow death of his favourite pastel babydoll nighty it was. He could still taste the maple syrup from that morning on his tongue, which was silly, because it was now hours and two shared bottles of champaign later - yet he still did.

The shower’s noise goes silent, or maybe it had been silent for a while now and Jaskier was too focused on trying to _not_ focus that he hadn’t noticed. Either way, it didn’t really matter because he had a job to do, a reputation to uphold that he’d been ready to put to bed and never look back at that morning. _Funny, how everything can change in a two-minute conversation._ Jaskier leans back on his elbows, head tossed back to try and get into character. If he was honest, for all the glitz, glamour and high-end gifts Vilgefortz’s time offered Jaskier, he never much cared for this particular ‘character’ of his. But money was money, it was all just skin-deep and Jaskier had to remember that. _Look what forgetting that has caused,_ his internal mourning is cut short when he hears the soft click of the lavatory door opening, _showtime, Dandelion._

“How’s my baby feeling tonight?” Vilgefortz’s smooth deep voice asks, and it was usually so easy to play the part with him for Jaskier, but he hated that this time it was a struggle because of _some bastard’s_ words still lingering in his mind. “You look gorgeous, my baby Dandi.”

Jaskier’s smile feels a little strained when he rolls his head to the side to peek out at Vilgefortz from the corner of his eye, but with the man’s growing smirk he thinks he pulls it off, “I’m bored, daddy.”

Vilgefortz hums and Jaskier takes the moment to play it up, moving his eyes over the damp thatch of dark hair over his still slightly-wet deep caramel chest. Vilgefortz was a handsome man, built strong and lithe and usually Jaskier wouldn’t have to force himself to stare at him with lust dancing in his eyes. But now, all he wanted was to see was pale, scarred skin that stretched over mounds of ridiculously sized muscle; Jaskier wanted to see white hair and golden eyes and- _enough!_

“We can’t have that, now can we?” Vilgefortz chuckles in his obliviousness to Jaskier’s inner turmoil, approaching the bed with a hotel towel wrapped low on his hips.

Jaskier moves and repositions himself to a W-sitting position, hands between his knees to lever him forward ever so slightly, and felt the slight fruition of his old confidence come to life when Vilgefortz’s eyes darkened. He bites his lower lip, playfully teasing it for a moment, “so what are you going to do about it, daddy?”

With Vilgefortz’s towel ripped away by the man himself, Jaskier scrambles up the bed and half-heartedly tussles with him until he’s firmly pinned beneath his client. Arching up against him as he kisses back, hands pinned to the bed on either side of his head. _This is good, Vilgefortz is good…safe,_ Jaskier tells himself. The familiarity of the man is something he knows; something that won’t hurt him. But as Vilgefortz’s mustache brushes against his upper lip and beard irritates the skin of his neck when he kisses a trail down to Jaskier’s collarbone, calling out for his ‘baby Dandelion,’ Jaskier realizes something. He realizes he hates this, hates that it isn’t Geralt he’s moaning for.

But that doesn’t matter anymore, now that he knows what Geralt thinks of him does it?

* * *

_The morning felt like a dream to Jaskier he had yet to wake from, but in all honesty he’d rather stay asleep._

_“Any hints to where this fantastical waffle place is?” Jaskier asks over the hood of Geralt’s car, opening the passenger side door as he does._

_“Nope,” Geralt pops the ‘p’ and Jaskier chuckles dropping into the car seat, so be it then because for all Jaskier cared Geralt could take him to a dive bar and he’d enjoy it. So long as Geralt was there with him._

_“Well this is a fancy ride,” Jaskier comments, letting out a low whistle at the dark leather interior._

_“Her name’s Roach,” Jaskier looks at him with a rather dumbfounded expression, he’s sure._

_“You named this beautiful girl ‘Roach’?”_

_“I didn’t, my daughter did and it sort of just…stuck,” Geralt chuckles softly and starts up the car but pauses for a moment, “seat belt, Jask.”_

_“Oh don’t you go trying to distract me, this is a story I_ have _to hear,” Jaskier turns in his seat enough to face Geralt, and the indulgent smile on the older man’s face, his own grin widening. “Well?”_

_“Ciri was about two, still learning words,” Geralt sits back in his seat with a fond expression, eyes a little distant as he recalls the story. “One day I was picking her up from Yen’s place, I was carrying her to the car to put her in the car’s carrier seat when she pointed at it and yelled out ‘roach!’ Yen freaked out, thinking she saw a cockroach by the car, Yen says she hates them but - and don’t tell her I said this - she’s terrified of them-”_

_“Reasonable woman,” Jaskier chuckles softly, eyes focused on Geralt who only pauses long enough to huff a soft laugh himself._

_“But Ciri looked excited about it. I looked all over the car for a cockroach on Yen’s insistence and found nothing, but Ciri kept point at it saying ‘roach.’ It went on for a while, every time she saw my car, and it wasn’t until months later that we realized she was trying to say ‘stagecoach.’ Yen loves old Western films, and one night while watching one Ciri pointed at the screen yelling ‘roach!’ Yen went into a laughing fit over it, and it stuck.”_

_“And you’ve called her Roach since,” Jaskier concludes, temple rested against his propped up palm on the seat’s headrest, “Ciri sounds like an amazing little girl.” Geralt hums in reply, the smile on his face softening his features with an almost unbearable warmth and pride for his daughter, and Jaskier was weak but to give in to the need to lean forward and press a kiss to the man’s cheek._

_He felt his chest swell with that familiar ache behind his breast bone; if he hadn't been sure if he loved Geralt before, he knew it without a doubt now. The man was just full of emotions beneath the surface, and Jaskier fell in love with each layer of him. It was hard not to, Geralt made it easy for Jaskier to love him. From the tender way he kissed Jaskier back, to the soft look in his hazel-gold eyes when talking about his daughter; he was a hard man not to love. Jaskier felt resolute in his decision as he deepened the kiss, pulling Geralt towards him and moaned softly when the man invaded his space without hesitation. He’d tell Geralt how he felt at breakfast, maybe not the whole truth, but enough of it to make his intentions clear._ I love you, Geralt, _is all he can think, over and over._

_Geralt pulls back just enough to meet his hooded eyes, “seat belt,” is all he says, but smiles at Jaskier like he hung the moon for him as he pulls the seat belt across Jaskier’s torso, buckling him in. He presses one more kiss to his lips before shifting back into the driver’s seat and doing the same._

_“Waffles?” Geralt asks while reversing the car out of his driveway, glancing over to Jaskier who tries stifling a goofy smile by biting at his lower lip - and keeps at it when he sees Geralt’s eyes flicker down to them._

_“Yes please, love.”_

_Jaskier was elated, to put it mildly. Despite the name - that Jaskier now felt was oddly fitting with its adorable backstory - Geralt’s car was something of a roguish beauty and drove just as smoothly. Jaskier was never really one for cars, to him they got him where he needed to go and if they were fancier while doing so, it was a simple perk. His father had more of an inclination for fancy motors, growing a rather impressive collection of them over the years. He’d shared that passion with his cousin, Ferrant, who was only a year older than Jaskier and big on learning everything about the newest, fastest cars on the market. His father had been disappointed that Jaskier preferred obscure arthouse film viewings and author book readings to the latest cars being shown off on showroom floors. Though that disappointment was nothing new, and Ferrant was much like his father; two self-absorbed assholes salivating over cars they’d pay others fixed. They deserved each other._

_But Geralt’s car didn’t smell like a new car, which was a smell his father loved so much. It scented with something more akin to sandalwood and a little bit of engine oil like the car was taken apart and put back together often enough for the smell to linger just that much longer. Jaskier could imagine it with little effort; Geralt bent over the open hood of his car, working hard to fix and tune her up to his standards; hands dirtied and shirt sweat-damp with exertion._ The little old ladies of his street must get pretty good shows every now and again, _Jaskier thinks with a barely concealed chuckle. He enjoys the soft scents in the car, somehow all very_ Geralt _he can’t help_ but _enjoy them. But there was something else that lingered in the car’s air;_ cherries. _Jaskier notices no cheap gas station car air freshener hung from the rearview mirror, and wonders what - or who - is in Geralt’s car enough for the smell to linger just as long, but stronger than the engine oil. It rivals with the sandalwood pleasantly._

* * *

Jaskier lays on the hotel bed staring up at the high ceiling in the dark, the room around him barely lit with a faint blue hue. He couldn’t sleep, the morning just kept replaying itself in his mind over and over and _over_ again. It was driving him _mad._ How could he have been so stupid? So gullible to believe his stupid bleeding heart? _I did this to myself,_ he thinks while rubbing at his dry, irritated eyes that burned with each blink. He kept trying to swallow past the damn rock that took root in his throat, but the damn thing _wouldn't_ budge - if anything, it was only getting bigger by the minute. _I want to go home._ Glancing over at Vilgefortz, Jaskier knew he’d be able to leave without being noticed, the man slept like the dead and nothing short of a level seven earthquake would rouse him. He was careful and tried to be as silent as he could anyway, knowing his luck, Vilgefortz would probably wake up because Jaskier tripped over his own two feet and dove head-first into a glass table or something.

Jaskier manages to gather up his things and change into his spare jeans and sweatshirt without so much as a movement from Vilgefortz. The man _does_ toss to the side with Jaskier accidentally bumps his shin into the corner of a table while trying to navigate his way through the dark while pulling on his spare shoes but manages to find the bedroom’s door without further incident. Reaching into his satchel he grips his phone to check the time, but when it doesn’t immediately turn on, he remembers why and - maybe rather aggressively - shoves it back into the bag. He checks the time on the elevator’s monitor instead, _three in the morning, great._ Jaskier spends a few minutes trying to hail a cab, it takes a good few minutes because of the late hour but eventually one slows and Jaskier gets in. Rattling off his address, he leans his head on the window and stares listlessly out the window as the cabbie drives on, humming to the radio every now and again but - thankfully - doesn’t try to strike up a conversation. Jaskier is grateful for the silence.

* * *

_They pull up to a semi-popular diner on the outskirts of downtown called the ‘Diner at the Crossroads.’ Jaskier actually knows the place, they had fantastic homemade ice cream, but he’d never tried their waffles before. With the guarantee of hearty, quality food his stomach makes itself known with a rather embarrassingly loud growl that Jaskier tries to coverup with a louder cough. But if Geralt snort of laughter is any indication, he’d heard it anyway._

_“C’mon, let's get you fed before your stomach eats itself,” he says while switching off the engine, pocketing the keys once he’s opened his door and stood up. Jaskier moves to follow and together they head in, taking a seat at the diner’s window booths._

_The view of the street was pleasant, with people milling around window shopping at the surrounding stores or just strolling about enjoying the mild weather. But what Jaskier loved most about the window seating was how the sun’s softened rays made Geralt’s hair look like spun silver, his eyes glimmering like liquid gold; the glow highlighting his high cheekbones and sharp jaw, colouring in the dimple of his chin. His lips coloured like pastel pink rose petals._ He looks like something out of a damn fairytale, _Jaskier thinks a little dreamily, not bothering to hide his staring. Geralt stares back at him, and while Jaskier doesn’t know what he sees, the soft smile that pulls the corners of his lips is enough for Jaskier’s heart to skip a beat._ I should tell him, _he thinks, they were due for a conversation anyway,_ I _have_ to tell him.

_“Um…Geralt I-“_

_“What can I get you, gentlemen?” Both men look up to see an elderly woman smiling down at them, pen and notepad at the ready in her spotted hands._

_“Waffles and coffee, please,” Geralt replies, looking over to see if Jaskier has anything to add._

_“Oh could I bother you for extra syrup and whip on mine, please?”_

_“No bother at all sweetie, I’ll be back in two ticks with the coffee,” the woman smiles at them one last time before turning away, heading for the kitchens for a fresh pot._

_“What were you going to say?” Geralt asks once the woman’s out of earshot, and all at once Jaskier finds himself far too nervous to speak. Maybe he could wait until after they’ve eaten to speak to him, they’d only just got here and their food was ordered._ No point in spoiling a good breakfast, _he reasons and ignores the voice of insecurity that adds,_ enjoy it while you can…it could be the last time you see him. _No, no he was just being stupid again. Geralt wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t just toss him aside like some stranger…would he?_ No, he isn’t like that, shut up, _he tells himself, despite his sudden unease._

_“You okay, Jask?” Geralt’s hand twitches towards him like he wants to reach out and take Jaskier’s fidgeting hands into his own, larger one. It’s a nice thought._

_“I was just…I was just gonna say that I’ve been writing again,” Jaskier settles on, it’s safer territory - even if as a writer it’s one of far more insecurity._

_“You mentioned something about that before,” Geralt hums with slightly creased brows, likely trying to place when Jaskier had last brought it up, “tell me about it.”_

_“You know, you should never ask a writer to tell you about their work,” Jaskier chides, Geralt matches his grin with a raised brow._

_“Why’s that?”_

_“Because we’ll never shut up.”_

_Geralt’s grin softens into a smile, “tell me anyway.” The elderly woman comes back with their coffees and sticks around a little longer to hear the bits about Jaskier’s ideas for a golden dragon named Borch and his warrior companions Téa and Véa._

* * *

The moment Jaskier gets home he darts for the kitchen, flitting from cupboard to cupboard until he finds the right one. Snatching out the awaiting bottle of tequila there, he wastes no time unscrewing the top and downing a mouthful of the abhorrently flavoured liquor. Tequila was only ever good drunk and even then there needed to be chasers or mixers, but the strong taste and even stronger burn distract him from his thoughts. It was a little life hack he learned from his mother; drink enough that words become a struggle to string together and if that doesn’t work, it’s because you haven’t drunk enough. Jaskier throws himself onto the living room couch, taking another long, wincingly abrasive drink before setting the bottle down and undoing his skinny jeans. He fights with his jeans for a moment, but find they’re easier to take off once he kicks off his sneakers.

“What was I thinking?” He asks the open, darkened room around him. _I forgot to turn on the lights._ It didn’t matter, he didn’t need to see to drink. “I wasn’t thinking, I…I was _feeling,_ like a fuckin’ bellend.”

Jaskier stares off into the darkness of his living room, his eyes long adjusted to the navy blue hue and patches of oblivion that surrounded him. He felt empty and full of pain all at once, and he didn’t know which he preferred; which would be easier to bear until his heart healed. If it ever healed. He’d thought Geralt was different to those that just saw him as a warm body and a transaction, he’d thought…it all _meant_ something to the man. But he was wrong, _so wrong._ For all Geralt clearly cared, Jaskier’s presence didn’t matter to him, if anything it _embarrassed_ him, _he made that perfectly clear._ He shouldn’t have been surprised, no one wanted a whore as a partner for longer than a night.

Jaskier’s eyes skate down to the bottle in his hands but flicker back up to his laptop on the living room table. He’d been struggling with how to conclude the Witcher and friends’ voyage to find the golden dragon, but with the twisting knot of pain in his chest that migrated to his throat, his mind spins out its conclusion with ease. Leaning forward Jaskier picks up his laptop, wincing at the momentarily blinding light when the computer powers on. With another drink of the liquor that didn’t make him wince quite so strongly this time, his fingers begin to dance across his keyboard. The perk of being a writer? He didn’t have to feel his pains alone, even if that meant inflicting them onto his hapless creations.

* * *

_“I take it you’re enjoying it?” Geralt chuckles from across the booth table, grinning at Jaskier who likely looks remarkably like a chipmunk trying to store food in its cheeks._

_Jaskier nods, glancing down at his half-empty plate; there’d been six waffles, but now only two remained. He couldn’t help but inhale them, aside from being rather hungry they_ were _amazing. Each waffle was cooked to perfection, just the right amount of give and crispiness, what else did Geralt expect him to do? Take his time?_ No thank you, _Jaskier thinks, swallowing down the mouthful of food, only to cut out another square and merrily fill his mouth back up with the large piece of sweet goodness._

_“You like sweets,” Geralt says, though it’s a clear statement rather than question so Jaskier simply nods, running another cut off square through the syrup on his plate. “You really like sweets,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee. For all his teasing, Geralt had managed to put a rather impressive dent in his own plate in half the time Jaskier had._ He’s a growing boy, of course he’d be hungry, _Jaskier jokes to himself and manages to_ just _avoid choking on the remnant chunks of his waffle when he giggles at the thought._

_“I noticed that back at the Rosemary and Thyme too, I think you got the sweetest drink on the menu.” Jaskier sits back in his seat a little, waiting for some of his breakfast to digest before going back in for the rest because he was_ not _leaving anything on his plate. When something was as good as these waffles, it would be sacrilegious to leave anything behind._

_“I wasn’t allowed sweets when I was a kid,” Jaskier explains, though he puts in a mindful effort to keep his voice light,_ no reason to bring the mood down. _“My mother would always say ‘Julian, you don’t need more sweets, you’re big enough,’ and I guess to be fair I was a rather large child…by her standards anyway. To everyone else, I was as adorable as a cherub angel. At six my baby fat was gone, but my mother’s insecurities weren’t so fortunate. Now that I think about it, the first chocolate bar I ever actually had and finished in one sitting was in high school during a sleepover at a mate’s house. They were drinking their faces off, and I was hunkered down in the corner with a box of Hershey’s chocolate bars like I was an Alcatraz prisoner with contraband.”_

_Jaskier huffs a laugh and glances down at his plate. It wasn’t the most pleasant of stories, but he wanted to be open with Geralt, honest even. Using his real name wasn’t a slip-up, he saw the chance and took it for what it was; a moment of honesty to who he really was, past the skin-deep relationship they’ve had so far._

_“Since I turned eighteen, if I see a sweet, I eat it,” Jaskier concludes, glancing up at Geralt he sees a spark of anger in the man’s eyes, but it’s not directed him he can tell. It makes him love him just a little bit more if he’s honest._

_“Well your mother was a- wrong,” Geralt says, the slight hesitant pause before the end makes Jaskier chuckle._

_“You can say she was a bitch,” Jaskier laughs, and Geralt’s shoulders sag a little as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips._

_“An utter bitch.”_

_“Right?!” Jaskier exclaims dramatically through a laugh, smiling wider when Geralt laughs too. There’s a lull then, a content, companionable one. Jaskier sees Geralt ramping up to say something, so Jaskier passes the time momentary silence by finishing off his fifth waffle._

_“So…Julian?” Geralt looks a bit more hesitant now like he was ready to quickly swipe the moment under the rug if that’s what Jaskier wanted; ready to forget the bit of honesty if it had been a slip-up on Jaskier’s end. But he didn’t, because it wasn’t._

_“Julian Alfred Pankratz,” Jaskier says, eyes darting up to Geralt for a moment before moving back to his plate, and back again. “I prefer to go by Jaskier, though.”_

_“Okay,” Geralt smiles, warm and soft, pausing for a moment and nods in understanding, though his brows crease a little, “so your…clients, they all call you Jaskier?”_

_Jaskier feels himself smile a little at that, it shouldn’t feel as good as it does to see Geralt stifling a bit of jealousy at the thought, “no, they call me Dandelion.”_

_The slightly tensed lines of Geralt’s shoulders relax at the admission, before something else takes its place; surprise. He looks at Jaskier like he’s trying to figure something out, piecing together a puzzle in his mind. However, Jaskier doesn’t want him to try and guesstimate and now was as good a time as any. He’d tell him how he felt about him and hoped beyond hope he hadn’t just been imagining this…_ thing _between them._ Dear God, please, _please_ just give me this…he’s all I’ll ever ask for, I swear. _Jaskier sits up a little more in his seat, staring down at his last waffle for courage. Geralt brought him here, listened to him,_ really _listened and even cared for what he heard. It had to mean something, all this had to mean_ something.

_“Geralt I…I’ve been meaning to talk to you, and I…maybe I’m wrong, but...well, Geralt I-”_

_“Dad!” Jaskier’s words stop on the tip of his tongue when Geralt snaps to attention at the call, face alarmed before he whips around in his seat to face…a little girl. Well, a tween more like. She stood just behind their booth with a large smile and ash blonde hair, her eyes a piercing green. When she got closer, Jaskier realized she smelled of cherries._

_“Dara and I saw you through the window,” she moves without hesitation to hug Geralt, who immediately hugs her back._

_The girl - Ciri, Jaskier remembers Geralt and Yen telling him - pulls back and turns to grin at Jaskier. The girl was radiant, hints of her father and mother in her features as she faces him with a smile that could rival the sun’s bright warmth. She’d grow up to give her father high blood pressure, Jaskier was sure. There was no doubt to him that this energetic little girl was Geralt’s daughter, and he almost laughs at how such a stoic man could raise such a ball of energy. Jaskier already felt himself growing fond over her._

_“Hello, I’m Cirilla!” She greets, holding out a hand Jaskier takes and shakes with a smile of his own, “who are you?”_

_“I’m-”_

_“He’s no one,” Geralt cuts in, features stone-hard and trained on his daughter. She rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest, not wilting as many lesser beings may under her father’s gaze, but Jaskier was a lesser man. “Ciri what are you doing here on your own?”_

_“I’m not, I’m with Dara,” she replies as though it were obvious, waving a hand at the friend just behind her who nervously waves at Geralt. “I wanted to come say hi, ask if you wanted to come to the movies with us.”_

_“Where’s your mother?” Geralt asks instead, Ciri says something in reply and Geralt answers back, but to Jaskier…it all sounds like muffled noises. Like he'd been dunked underwater. He can’t stop staring at Geralt’s profile, the man’s attention focused on his daughter, and fair enough, but…_ he said I was ‘no one.’ _Jaskier feels his chest collapsing in on itself, and suddenly it feels hard to breathe. Like something was stuck in his throat. Like he was drowning. He realizes his hand is still in midair where Ciri had left it and snatches it back to grip at his thigh._

_How could he have been so stupid? To Geralt, he was nothing more than a hired companion. A whore. Never in his years escorting had Jaskier felt dirty or ashamed of his work, but right then he felt_ filthy. _What had he been thinking? Geralt was just being nice to him, taking him out to breakfast as thanks for the freebie,_ or maybe it was his way of payment, _a vicious part of him says, but it made sense. Geralt wasn’t different, but that wasn’t his fault. Geralt wasn’t to blame for not wanting his daughter to know about the man he’d hired to screw around with. What person would? Jaskier knew his work made him a little ‘secret’ in the lives of his clients, but he’d never felt like such a dirty one before now. Jaskier had let his heart get the better of his head; he’d done this to himself and got what he had coming because of it._

_“I should-“ he stops when his voice comes out like a broken whisper, clearing his throat he tries again, stronger this time. He hates the way his words still shake, “I should go.”_

_He meets Ciri’s eyes when she looks to him as he stands to move, he feels Geralt staring at him but doesn’t think he could bear to look into his eyes right then. She steps closer to him, a worried, apologetic expression dampening her young features, brows creasing much like her father’s do when he worries._ They look so much alike, _Jaskier notes with a mix of broken fondness._

_“Oh don’t go, I didn’t mean to interrupt! You could come to the movies with us if you’d like,” she smiles hopefully at him, and Jaskier smiles back even as he feels his eyes burn and hands tremble; she was such a kind girl,_ she probably got that from her father, too.

_“Don’t worry dear, I was just leaving anyway,” Jaskier lies easily, and thankfully this time his voice doesn’t shake. He couldn’t bear her feeling guilty or upset over his own idiocy. “You have a lovely time though, alright?”_

_Ciri’s smile returns, a little hesitant but she nods all the same, “okay, if you’re sure.”_

_“I’m very sure, darling.”_

_Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to leave after that, his legs moving without the need for a command to get him the_ hell _out of that diner. He just…needed space. A little time to get his head on right and his damn heart back into one piece,_ what was I even thinking would happen? That Geralt would care for me like I care for him? That he’d sweep me off my fucking feet? _He laughs hoarsely when the diner doors close behind him,_ get your head out fo the clouds, Pankratz.

_Jaskier just manages to make it down to the street corner when he hears it; Geralt. He wants to break into a run, right then. Just run as fast as his legs will take him, but what good would that do? Geralt wasn’t only his client but knew where he lived,_ this is why you never have clients over, you fuckwit. _Jaskier’s steps slow to a halt, swallowing repeatedly and blinking away the scorching in his eyes until he hears heavy steps approaching from behind him. He turns, then and only then - if only to keep Geralt from reaching out for him. Jaskier was sure his façade would crumble if the man touched him right now._

_“What’s wrong, Jaskier?” Geralt breathing is a little quicker than normal, and Jaskier hates himself for the way his heart swells at the thought of the man running after him, though his question makes Jaskier want to scream. It turns his swelling, fond heart into a blistering ache. He speaks before he can think better of it._

_“I’m ‘no one,’ so why do you care?” Geralt didn’t deserve his anger, but anger was all he had left after the pain. He can’t meet the man’s eyes, choosing to dart his gaze around instead._

_“Jaskier I didn’t mean-”_

_“I couldn’t have been a friend? A damn_ acquaintance, _even?” Jaskier huffs a ragged laugh that sounds wrong, even to his own ears. “I get it, you don’t want your daughter to know you’ve hired a harlot, I get it! I fucking do. I’m an embarrassing dirty secret to you, but a little fucking common human decency would have been nice! But ‘no one,’ really?!” his voice was rising, his nails dug painfully into his palms and people were beginning to look over, but Jaskier just felt…so fucking tired._

_“Jask-”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” he doesn’t want to hear Geralt speak, doesn’t want to give his wretched heart any excuse to push again for its stupid, impossible dreams. “Consider breakfast payment for this morning, so don’t worry about it.”_

_“No, Jask, I-“ Jaskier’s jaw tenses, and for a moment he thinks his molars crack under the pressure._

_“Call me Dandelion, or don’t call me at all,” Jaskier says through his clenched teeth, and this time he_ does _meet Geralt’s eyes. They’re wild, frantic and…sad in a horrible way that makes Jaskier look off to the side again. “See you around, Geralt,” with that he turns to leave, and this time Geralt doesn’t call after him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNINGS:  
> \- Lots of self-loathing  
> \- Drinking to cope  
> \- Slight hints at eating disorders  
> \- Mentions of fat shaming
> 
> ...yikes, I didn't even see that coming.


	10. Understanding of (Your) Worth Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is given some words of encouragement and gets an unexpected visitor...

Jaskier groans, slumping forward and pressing his head against the chilled marble of his kitchen countertop. Beside his head, he hears the eggs he'd found in his fridge sizzling in the pan, and wonders why he even bothered trying to make breakfast- well, technically supper since he’d managed to sleep most of the day away. He felt so hungover he wasn’t sure if he was actually still drunk or not. The shower he'd had before deciding to make food helped clean the grime of yesterday off him, and while logic told him the dirty film he felt on his skin was his own shame, Jaskier had scrubbed his skin pink under his scalding shower all the same. He still felt a little dirty, despite his efforts.

“ **Well, abhorrent spelling and grammar aside-** ”

“I was _drunk-”_

“ **-it’s actually an amazing quest, Jask,** ” Filavandrel continues to say over him, his voice sounding a little excited from the laptop speaker’s to the other side of Jaskier’s head. And once the words actually _register_ with Jaskier, he lifts his head with a brow raised at the man as he waited for the oncoming 'but.' “ **I mean it, I didn’t see Borch being the dragon and actually got a little choked up when he,Téa and Véa fell. The ending to the quest, although…** ” _There it is, the ever-present 'but,'_ Jaskier thinks with a long, tired inhale.

“Let me guess, it’s shite?” he asks with a following sigh, honestly the beginning compliment was surprising in and of itself, so maybe Jaskier was on to something but needed to get through a few more drafts to get it right. It wouldn't be the first time that was the case, after all. Nothing was right on the first draft. _Maybe this world is God's first draft,_ Jaskier thinks with a private snort as he moves to stand and grab a plate, using a fork to scrape his eggs onto it lest they burn and set off the fire alarm, _it would explain a lot._

“ **N** **o, actually** ," Jaskier's movements slow at that, before pausing all together as the man continues, " **as frustrating as it is it’s actually rather good, especially for a first draft, but…** ” when Filavandrel trails off Jaskier looks to his editor through the pixilated screen image, the man clearly working up to say something, which was odd because Filavandrel never really hesitated when it came to speaking to Jaskier about his work. “ **Well…do you think the story will have a happy end?** ”

For a moment, Jaskier thinks Filavandrel was asking about more than just the story but pushed the thought aside as a silly one. Filavandrel, for all his care of Jaskier, didn’t give a rat’s ass about his personal life and Jaskier was perfectly fine with that. However, Jaskier hesitates all the same because that was the crux of the question, wasn’t it? For his writing _and_ his personal life. Jaskier thinks back to the morning that started this little downward spiral of his, but maybe it started further than that; perhaps it all really started the day Jaskier opened his doors to Geralt on that first day, in more ways than one. He’d been stupid to let the man in, be it his home or his heart, he’d been mucking everything up since that very first day.

Gathering his plate and laptop Jaskier moves back to the living room couch, balefully glaring at the emptied bottle of tequila laid out on its side on the floor by his feet. He thinks back to last night, trying to remember the ending he thought up through the syrupy haze of tequila, but comes up blank. He feels torn between wanting to eat his eggs to sober up, and get drunk all over again just thinking about it.

“I have no idea,” he finally replies, and catches the tale end of a foreign expression on Filavandrel’s face before the man nods, _professional as ever,_ he thinks with a soft huff.

“ **Fair enough,** ” which is an answer that has Jaskier sitting up a little, Filavandrel was a demanding sod and for him to just _accept_ Jaskier’s indecisiveness made the writer worry if he’d hit his head, recently and rather hard. “ **Ending potentials aside, do you think it’ll span into future novels, or remain contained to just the one?** ”

Jaskier’s fork slows on it’s way to his mouth, the utensil in his hand precariously balancing a large piece of slightly-over-fried egg, “I think it’ll land somewhere in the middle; my dream’s to have a whole series of books, which you know, but...if it flops at least I’ll know I suck and can move on to other genres or something.”

Jaskier expects a laugh or a bemused huff from Filavandrel, but when he’s met with silence after managing to get his mouth around the wide cut of the egg. Chewing, he looks down to see his editor all but glaring at him. Jaskier’s brows knit together, but when Filavandrel doesn’t comment on his clear confusion he speaks around a mouthful of his breakfast.

“Whaff wif vah ‘ook?” For a moment he thinks Filavandrel’s connection might have cut until he sees the man cringe at Jaskier’s lack of manners.

“ **Jaskier, I know it’s part of the repertoire for artists to be insecure with their work,** ” Filavandrel starts, beginning to look a little more worked up than a silly joke from Jaskier warranted, but he knew better than to try to speak over his editor. The man was a hardheaded ox when he wanted to be, and Jaskier could privately admit that he wanted to hear what his friend had to say. “ **And _damn_ your parents for making it worse, I’m not even sorry for saying it. But Jaskier you _are_ a good writer. Poetry, novels, hell even _comics_ -**”

“I was barely involved in that-”

“ **Jaskier you were involved enough the author thanked you, by _name_ during their acceptance speech for the Eisner Award!**” Filavandrel sighs, sitting back in his office chair and pinches the bridge of his nose, “ **I know words mean nothing right now, ironically enough, but I promise you, Jask, you _will_ see the positive outcomes of your work. You have in the past with your poetry, but disregarded all the success you had because of your parents; this is _your_ project, _your_ passion and I’ll be damned if I let my best client shit on their talent.**”

Jaskier sits, frozen while Filavandrel rants. The man’s sincere with his words; he’s never been one to sugarcoat things to Jaskier and right now, Jaskier knew he believed in everything he was saying with enough conviction Jaskier felt himself choking up a little. No one had ever really said that to him, not to this extent or with this much impassioned belief. Sure, his friends were supportive, and once Priscilla even flew in to attend an awards ceremony back in his poetry days in support of his win. But this? Jaskier didn’t know how to take it, in all honesty. Clearing his throat, he tries for a teasing smile instead.

“I knew I was your best friend,” Filavandrel face drops before morphing into an expression of exasperated bemusement, and thankfully doesn’t press on the matter when he speaks.

“ **I distinctly said ‘client’.** ” Jaskier barks a laugh, a little strangled from his friend’s earlier words but is genuine all the same. “ **I’ll edit this and send it back to you by tomorrow, and Jaskier?** ”

“Yeah?”

“ **Take care of yourself.** ” With that Filavandrel signs off and Jaskier lets out a deep breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding. Filavandrel was like the older brother Jaskier never had, a private little thought he always kept to himself but now felt that familial love towards the man more than ever. Filavandrel believed in him, in his work and that added to the well of uncomfortable churning in Jaskier’s stomach enough to make breathing easier. The events of yesterday weren’t gone, nor lessened but…it was slightly easier to bear, now.

Setting down the plate of half-eaten eggs, Jaskier instead reaches for his phone on the living room table. The screen remains dark when he taps it and all at once remembers why. His momentary levity dulled horribly at why his phone was still switched off, but he couldn’t hide from the world forever. He feels silly, bracing himself as he turns the device on, as though he were going into battle but can't help it. His phone vibrates with a handful of notifications once it comes to life; two messages from Priscilla asking to catch up, another from Vilgefortz thanking him for last night and asking when he was free again, and…Geralt _._ He sits up a little straighter in his seat seeing the message from Geralt, the timestamp said it was sent almost an hour ago, and Jaskier didn’t know if he felt relieved or upset by the fact the man had waited more than a day to text him back. _It makes sense though, that he’d want space after the way you acted out_ , a voice that sounds annoyingly like his mother reasons. However, it’s the message itself that makes Jaskier’s heart plunge deeper into the void of his stomach.

**_Geralt - Today, 5:32PM: We need to talk_ **

And right then Jaskier _knew_ nothing would be okay. No request for a conversation went out well after starting with those words - words Jaskier was oh so painfully familiar with. He types out and deletes multiple attempts at a reply, but when no words seem sufficient he feels the only proper response would be to chuck his phone across the room. Broken screen be damned. However, before he can even reel his arm in for the throw, his phone vibrates, making him jump. He thinks it’s another text from Geralt, maybe the man saw he’d read the message and decided to save himself the effort of conversation- _why the fuck do I still have my read receipts on?_ Jaskier thinks a little desperately, but is surprised to find out it isn’t Geralt that texted him, and somehow who actually did just makes him feel worse.

**_Yennefer Vengerberg - Now: open your door you prat_ **

**_Yennefer Vengerberg - Now: don’t hide, I fucking see u_ **

Jaskier stops mid-slither to slump down from the couch to the floor, casting a glance to his window to see a single glaring eye staring right at him through the curtains. For a moment, he genuinely wonders if Yen conducted herself like horror movie villains because, _holy hell that’s creepy._ The dimmed natural light wasn’t helping, if anything it made Jaskier feel like he was in the beginnings of a home invasion slasher flick. With a sigh, Jaskier pushes himself up off the edge of the couch, struggling a bit with his body so close to the floor before walking over to the door. _Is she here to yell at me? I mean, it would make sense I made a right arse of myself in front of her ex and daughter- oh shit, Ciri met me…fuck! Yen is going to scalp me._ Jaskier subconsciously raises a hand to run through his hair, praying it won’t be the last time he’s able to as he opens the door with more hesitancy than he’s ever done before.

Yennefer doesn’t wait to be invited in, pushing past Jaskier to stand at the foot of his stairs with arms crossed over her chest. She looked rather nice, sexy even, put together in a fashionable yet almost casually attractive way - though Yennefer always looked nice, her attention to appearance was always something Jaskier admired about her. One of the many things he admired about the women, really. Jaskier closes his front door after popping his head out of it for a second, surprised that Triss wasn’t with her when the two were usually attached at the hip. However, the absence of Triss made him all the more nervous. Why was Yen here? And what was it that made her feel the need to come alone?

“So, uhm…hello?”

“Ciri said she met you,” Yen says without preamble, turning around to meet his nervous gaze, _oh fucking SHIT-_ “don’t piss yourself, Jask, it’s fine. I’m glad she did, actually.”

Jaskier’s brain skids to a stuttering halt, stumbling over her words for a moment, “you- you are?”

“Yes,” Yen replies with an air of nonchalance, but the ever so slight crease between her brows tells Jaskier there’s more she’s waiting to say - Yen always treated conversations like a battle plan, another thing he begrudgingly admired even when it was targeted at him. “Ciri told me last night, said she felt bad about interrupting because you were upset when you left, well she used the words ‘ran away,’ to be precise.”

 _Oh no,_ Jaskier feels a weight coiling around his insides, dragging them down to the floor. He’d genuinely thought he’d managed to keep a happy face in front of their daughter; she didn’t need to know what was going on between him and Geralt, let alone feel _bad_ about simply wanting to speak with her own father. Ciri was a lovely girl, and in another life, Jaskier wished he’d be able to get to know her better. But as it was, he was supposed to be a secret - remain non-existent to her. _But Yen said she was ‘glad’ Ciri had met me, didn’t she? Why would she-_

“I know that look Jaskier, and honestly I sometimes wonder how no one else can see every thought you have,” Yen says with a light chuckle, arms unfolding as she moves to the kitchen and rifles through his fridge. “I’m glad Ciri met you because I never intended to keep you a ‘secret.’ Ciri knows you helped Triss and me, she’d been wanting to meet you for a while now, but we thought it best to keep her out of everything until-”

Yen stops as she straightens up, pulling out a bottle of white wine from his fridge and eyeing it for a moment, “until?” Jaskier asks, following her into the kitchen. She looks over at him, remaining silent until as she retrieves two wine glasses from a cupboard. Yen has been to his house enough to know where he kept everything, so he doesn’t bother telling her where to look.

“Until you and Geralt met,” she finally says, pouring generous portions from the half-emptied bottle for the both of them. Taking a sip, Yen sighs, “Jask, Triss and I weren’t… _wholly_ honest with our intentions for why we wanted you to meet Geralt.”

Something tells Jaskier this conversation would be better had with a little liquid courage and takes a mouthful of the chilled wine before saying, “what does that mean?”

For the first time since Jaskier’s known Yennefer, the woman looks…hesitant, he’d even go so far as to say _insecure_ as she tries to formulate her words. Her eyes don’t meet his, instead, they focus on the stem of her wine glass she absently runs a delicate finger down it in distraction.

“Yen, what did you mean?” Jaskier asks when the silence between them stretches on, the emotions and thoughts bubbling beneath his skin making him want to itch. “ _Yennefer-_ “

“Geralt is a hard man to love,” she finally says taking a sip of wine, her words aren’t rushed or harsh but rather matter-of-fact, though Jaskier feels his hackles rising at them all the same.

“No, he isn’t,” this time Yen _does_ meet his eyes, and Jaskier feels like he should be embarrassed by the admission he’d just inadvertently made, but can’t find that shame within himself. It was the truth, after all. Even if Geralt didn’t care for him past anything than an easy lay, Jaskier still loved him as much as it pained him to do so; Geralt was quite possibly the easiest man to love Jaskier had ever met because Geralt _made_ it so damn easy, even if he didn’t know it.

“And _that_ is exactly why Triss and I wanted you two to meet,” the corners of her mouth pull upwards ever so slightly, a soft, fond smile warming her features. “I loved Geralt, Jask. I still do, but in a different way than when we were together. Yes, he’s Ciri’s father, but he’s also the man that helped me through some of the hardest times in my life and asked for nothing in return. Sometimes, I felt like I hardly deserved him, still do at times.” That sounded like Geralt, giving but never asking to take; Jaskier has become familiar with that selfless side of Geralt and feels torn between missing his gentleness and wanting to pull away from it, lest the memory of it turn the broken shards of his heart to unfixable dust.

“But Geralt never really moved past _us,”_ Yen continues, pulling Jaskier from his thoughts, “he always blamed himself for why we didn't work out, when the reality was we didn’t know who we were when we met. The woman I am now is different than the one he knew then, and I don’t think Geralt ever really knew how to cope with that. After the divorce, he always punched _well_ below his weight with partners that, in all honesty, didn’t _deserve_ a damn chance with him. He’s an amazing father to Ciri, a constant and _good_ friend in my life I never would have dreamed of asking him to be but… _fuck,_ Jaskier, it was breaking my heart to see him so lost and _lonely_ , even if he’d never admit to it.”

Jaskier almost feels stupid for asking, but does anyway, “what does that have to do with me?”

Yen’s eyes are sharper now, her expression a little more severe, “Geralt wasn’t the only friend I saw those traits in.”

Jaskier jaw tenses. He wants to argue, to brush aside the implications of Yen’s words but…he couldn’t. It was simply the truth, as much as it pained and embarrassed him to hear, let alone admit. Jaskier didn’t know what he wanted out of his life, no one really does, but he’d never thought he’d be enduring the drifting of existence for so long alone. He’d made something of a name for himself with his work, but outside of that, he _was_ lonely. Escorting was a fun and beneficial distraction, sure, but by the end of a hectic session or a surprisingly fun date, Jaskier would return to an empty house that never really felt like a _home_. It was always those moments, right before he stepped back into the threshold of his apartment, that reminded him how empty and _hollow_ his life felt. Being with someone didn’t equate to instant happiness, he was well aware, but having someone he could take down his defences with; someone who would hold him with for no other reason than because they _could;_ someone Jaskier could wake up beside in the early mornings, instead of reaching out for empty air and a cold mattress that reminded him how despondent he really was when all was said and done just _hurt_.

 _Someone like Geralt,_ he thinks and recalls the morning prior; waking up atop Geralt and being greeted with a soft, warm expression, feeling cared for by someone just as deeply upon waking as he had when giving into sleep. It was thrilling, exhilarating and so many other words Jaskier couldn’t begin to think of because they all boiled down to one; he’d felt _happy,_ plain and simple. Not because Geralt being there assuaged his loneliness, but because having him there in Jaskier’s arms reminded the writer what it felt like to be human, that in the maelstrom of life loneliness wasn’t the only emotion to be felt. With Geralt, there was happiness, excitement and pain, even sadness, anger and pleasure beyond measure. Geralt reminded him that those emotions were worth risking a broken heart because it reminded him he was _alive._

Some days Jaskier felt he gave all he had to his characters, or to his poems and music, leaving him with nothing left for himself. But Geralt reminded him that the well of passion and sentiment he had thought had been wrung dry ran far deeper and that he’d simply forgotten that. Geralt was more than just a muse or simple inspiration to Jaskier, but _what_ that was, exactly, he didn’t know - _couldn’t_ know nor discover in such a short time together. He thinks it would take a lifetime to fully realize what it was that Geralt brought out in him, what he managed not to create but rediscover within Jaskier that the man himself long thought forgotten, _but…I don’t have a lifetime with him, fuck…I don’t even know if I’ll get another_ day _with him._

“Wait,” Jaskier stands a little straighter, eyes narrowing a little at Yen despite the lump in his throat at his thoughts, “when you asked me to meet with Geralt…did you- did you _know_ this would happen?”

For all the ways Jaskier admired Yen, the thing he loved most about her was that she never shied away from her own actions or decisions; would never try skirting around her intentions, preferring to face them head-on and with almost brutal honesty. He couldn’t take back that admiration, even now, realizing that very same determination lead him to this moment; to this heartbreak and gaping emptiness within his chest. Yennefer doesn’t shrink away nor looks to try and placate the implications of Jaskier’s words, and despite the welling ache behind his eyes and throat, he still admired her.

“I hoped it would,” she finally says, coming closer to Jaskier she takes his trembling right hand - when had he begun to shake? - into both of her own, grey eyes that shown almost violet in the right light stared at him with steady determination. “I didn’t think the outcome would be you drinking yourself into oblivion- no, don’t even try, I know what you look like hungover, Jask. Geralt is bullheaded, but he has a kind heart…I think you know that.” Jaskier tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but the burning pressure behind his eyes is a lost cause.

“I never meant for this outcome, I knew it was a risk but…I had hoped it would lead to better things for you both. I wanted you to be happy Jaskier, and I wanted the same for Geralt. I know it wasn’t my place to meddle-”

“But you did, didn’t you?” Jaskier finally manages out, his words come out more like a croak but are strong enough to be heard over the silence of his apartment. Yennefer flinches when he snatches his hand away, _good,_ is all he can think as he glares at her. “None of this would have ever fucking _happened_ had you just- if you just minded your own damn _business_ , Yen!”

Jaskier knew the moment he said the words that they were false. Yennefer never forced him to meet with Geralt in his own home, never pressed for him to feel anything past a professional arrangement for the man; Yennefer never made Jaskier get attached to Geralt, nor did she force him to fall in love with Geralt. He did all that. Him and him alone. None of this was Yennefer’s fault, even if he wished, desperately it was at least not his own. But for a moment, for a split _second_ , it had felt good, so _good_ to shift the blame of his broken heart away from himself no matter how unfair or childish it was to do so. His regret must be clear enough to see, or maybe Yen just saw through his desperate glare, because she doesn’t hesitate to step forward and gently pull Jaskier into her arms. Jaskier feels his anger and the resolve to stay away crumble the moment her gentle, slender hand brushes against his jaw to rest on the nape of his neck to pull him in. He cries, hard and bone-deep against her shoulder, bent over slightly to rest himself against her shorter frame as sobs tear at his throat and shudder through him. Yen says nothing, holding him tightly through it.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier croaks out when the worst of his crying subsides into a headache and we, stuffy sniffles, pulling back to wipe tears from his cheeks and sore eyes. His skin feels taut on his muscles and bones, and even his face but the pressure in his chest finally abates enough for him to be able to breathe just a little easier. “I shouldn’t have-”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Yen cuts in, and while her voice is as gentle as he’s ever heard it, he still casts his eyes down in shame. She didn’t deserve his ire, and they both knew it. “But I understand why you did…I did the same to Triss once, and you know what she did?”

Jaskier looks back to Yen, her features and eyes as kind as they’ve ever been - it almost hurts that her kindness is directed at him, feeling like he didn’t deserve a shred of it. “What did she do?”

Yen takes Jaskier’s face into her hands, cupping both damp and splotchy cheeks before gently tugging him forward to kiss his forehead, “she forgave me, just like I'm going to forgive you, Jask.” Jaskier feels his throat closing up again, but bites back his tears as he reaches for her wrists to hold them in his own hands if only to ground himself. Yen was here for him, and he felt a little less alone knowing that.

“Jaskier, you should talk to Geralt,” she says after a lull, her hands never leaving his face. “He’s an idiot, but after speaking with him today…you should listen to him, hear what he has to say- no, don’t assume. What we spoke about isn’t for me to share, and I’m not asking you to forgive what he did, all I’m asking for is for you to _listen_ to what he has to say and after that…what you decide to do with that information is entirely up to you, okay? Please, Jaskier.”

Maybe it’s because in all the time Jaskier has known Yen, he’s never once heard her use the word ‘please’ with a request. She was a demanding woman and only ever reserved the word for her wife, but Jaskier knew it was more than that. He knew in his heart that Yen wouldn’t needlessly cause him more pain, that she wouldn’t ask this of him if it would lead nowhere. She knew something he didn’t, and not for the first time Jaskier blindly put his trust in the woman he called a friend. Though for the first time since leaving the diner yesterday morning, he was surprised to feel a slight hope warm the edges of his cold soul; they were mere embers of the thing, but it was still _something._ And if anything, maybe speaking to Geralt could lead to the closure Jaskier needed to help move past this broken heart of his. 

“I will, I just…I need some space, first,” he says, finally releasing her hands, “but I will…I promise.”

The smile that Yen directs at him lights up her face, her eyes dazzlingly bright because of it, and Jaskier sees the resemblance of her daughter in them. Ciri may have gotten her kindness from her father, but Jaskier was willing to bet everything he had she was just as strong-willed and unrelentingly loyal as her mother.

“Good,” Yen snatches up her wine glass and downs the remainders of it, “now get dressed into something comfy.”

Jaskier feels a little like he’d gotten whiplash at the change in her demeanour, watching her as she retreats for his front door before finally managing out, “what? Why? Yen, wait!”

“Did you really think Triss just let me off the hook after being an asshole?” Yen stops to look Jaskier over her shoulder at him with an unimpressed expression, “of course not, she demanded a movie night, snacks and her pick of the movies. So everything better be set up by the time I get back.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times; a movie night was a fair trade for the dickish things he said to her but- “why are you going outside? I have clothes you can borrow-“

“I brought spares, they’re in my car,” Yen chuckles, facing him long enough to say, “plus, I’m pretty sure Ciri’s kicking up a fuss after having to wait so long to come in.” Jaskier wants to stop her again, argue and clarify about _WHAT?!_ But before he can Yennefer has already left the apartment and leaves the door open behind her. In the distance, he can hear the faint voice of a young girl arguing with her mother about having to sit in the ‘boring car’ all by herself.

Jaskier feels laughter of disbelief, surprise and almost crushing amounts of _fondness_ for the woman welling up within him. And by the time Yennefer returns with Ciri and their bags, they see the moment Jaskier can’t hold back his laughter any longer, doubling over with it. He felt dizzy with it, with _everything,_ really. But between the hope Yen had given him that he’d thought had all been stripped away, to the look of utter excitement on Ciri’s face at his door over the prospect of a movie night at Jaskier’s house, he thinks he’s allowed a short moment of relieved, hysterical laughter. This time, the tears don’t hurt quite as bad and hurt even less when - to his utter and honest surprise - Ciri hugs him through it before he even realized she’d moved.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t-” he starts, trying to quell his teary laughs, but Ciri is having none of it apparently.

“Mum said you were feeling down,” Ciri starts, looking up at Jaskier with the same smile her mother had given him minutes ago, “and dad said it’s okay to cry, so don’t feel bad about it, okay? Whenever I feel down mum watches movies with me to cheer me up, and she said we’re gonna do the same for you.”

Ciri buries her face into Jaskier’s tummy with another tight hug he’s happy to return. He thinks it should be strange how much he already loves Ciri like his own kid, but enjoys the feeling all the same and hugs her a little tighter because of it. Looking over the young girl’s head to her mother, Jaskier mouths _thank you_ to Yen, and sees her bright, fond smile widening a little more in welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for the delay, my poor cat had an allergic reaction to some medicine so I've been fussing over her instead of writing (poor floof looked like Brat Pitt from Fight Club), but thankfully she's doing better now and I hope this chapter made up for the lateness! We're nearing the end of this story, at least I think if things go as planned with the plot, so I just want to say thank you all SO MUCH for all your amazing support and comments and I hope to see y'all at the next chapter!! xxoxoo


	11. Understanding of (Your) Worth Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier wasn't the only one Yen paid a surprise visit to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt's POV of the 'Day After.'

Geralt doesn’t think of his mother often, it hurt him to think of her if he was being honest. Visenna was an abstract in his mind, the barebones draft of what his life could have been and what it later turned into. Geralt couldn’t hate her, not when he didn’t know her nor why she left him on the steps of the Kaer Orphanage. Vesemir was his father as far as Geralt saw it, adoptive or otherwise. Yes, Vesemir wasn’t the ‘best’ parent anyone could ask for, he and his brothers all had their fair share of therapist receipts to prove as much, but Vesemir had done the best he could and none of them would ever deny that. Vesemir was the one who looked at the three young teenage boys who saw themselves as brothers and saw hope, where others had seen lost causes. He'd been the one to take a chance on them, deciding to take them home and give them a chance when no one else would. Vesemir was the one to show up at the police station when Lambert got caught for shoplifting as a rebellious teen; Vesemir was the one to stay up late with Eskel when he would scream himself awake out of nightmares about house fires and his skin burning; Vesemir was the one who’d patch Geralt up after another school fight because someone had dared offend him or someone he cared about.

While Eskel and Lambert had their own personal issues with Vesemir, and even Geralt still held a hefty bit of daddy issues in the recesses of his mind; none of them could deny that, at the very least, Vesemir had been _there_ for them when no one else was _._ But he couldn't lie to himself; Visenna’s abandonment of him stayed with Geralt. He’d rationalized her actions towards him for half his life, spent _years_ crawling his way through the five stages of grief, but rationality and acceptance didn’t matter to irrational emotions and gnashing insecurities. Because the truth of the matter was when Visenna had left him behind it left a long, deep wound in Geralt. And while that wound scarred closed over his life, it would still pull and ache over the years, making its presence there remembered to Geralt. The taut skin of a keloid scar reminding him just how painfully lonely he could feel, how agonizing being _unwanted_ felt.

_'He’s no one.'_

Of all the ways Geralt thought he’d ever hurt Jaskier, that hadn’t been one of them. Not even top three, really - and fourth place lent itself to Geralt somehow accidentally dropping a damn _anvil_ on the poor man’s foot, because his anxiety was a wondrous, creatively horrifying thing when it wanted to be. But no, instead his idiocy decided to dismiss Jaskier’s - or should he say Dandelion, now? - existence all together. Geralt groans and scrubs a hand down his face, only to return his gaze to the same point on the ceiling he’d been staring at for the better part of three - four? - hours. Sometimes, his house felt entirely too big for just himself. And while having Cirilla around turned his house into a home, when she was gone, Geralt felt a distinctly painful and sharp, snaring ache of loneliness in his chest whenever it was just him and his thoughts.

 _I didn’t mean that_ he thinks, wincing once again at the harsh words he’d thoughtlessly used towards Jaskier. _I’d never meant to hurt him,_ Geralt screws his eyes shut, willing the phosphenes created in the darkness to lessen the painful regret that made his temples ache, _but you did anyway, didn’t you?_ Geralt knew he should move, maybe tidy up before Ciri and Yen came by to collect some of Cirilla’s things for their weekend together, but he just couldn’t bring himself to move. Moving meant he was alive, and being alive meant yesterday’s disaster was real; Geralt was becoming far too comfortable not living in reality, as of late. Because reality meant he really _did_ hurt Jaskier, that _he_ caused that look of pain and regret on the younger man’s features. That _he,_ Geralt Rivia, was the one who brought the look of devastation to Jaskier’s perpetually happy face and broke the man’s heart. Jaskier’s eyes were nothing if not breathtakingly emotive, and Geralt saw it as painfully clear as staring into the sun; Jaskier’s heart, broken by his feet where he stood on the street corner, defences raising themselves to protect what was left of the man’s pride. And Geralt couldn’t - _wouldn’t -_ blame him for what he'd said, or for leaving.

He’d made Jaskier feel unwanted, and that was his doing and his alone.

However, reality, as always, seemed to rear its head when Geralt least wanted it to in the form of keys unlocking his front door. _Ciri can’t see me like this,_ was his only motivator to get up just as the front door of the house was pushed open. Geralt stands and moves to the kitchen to get started on making some coffee. Yen liked the brand he used and he needed _something_ to do lest she notices his odd, broody behaviour. It’s just as he finishes setting up the coffee maker that Geralt can’t help but smile, hearing quick footsteps running across the wooden floors, and knows what’s coming before he turns. Geralt manages to twist around just in time to get an armful of his daughter running in to hug him, wrapping his arms around her tiny body. Geralt could never really get over how small she was, but maybe it was just a parental thing; your kid was just so small and preciously delicate to you until they suddenly weren’t, and could manage on their own in the world. Ciri was a hugger, and Geralt loved it. He’d tease Yen that she got it from her mother, while Yen would argue it’s a trait written with him all over it. But they'd both agreed long ago that Ciri was the best parts of them combined, with so much of her own distinct uniqueness that maybe it really _was_ just her.

“Dad you should have come to the movie, it was _so_ good!” Geralt smiles softly, still holding his daughter but couldn’t really bring himself to reply. After what happened with Jaskier, Geralt had opted to wait in a nearby café while Ciri and Dara went to the cinema - the last thing he wanted was to dampen his daughter’s mood over his own idiocy.

“Why don’t you tell him what you told me?” Yen asks from where she pulls herself up to sit on the wide, marble-topped kitchen island. Ciri pulls back a little with a smile Geralt knows oh too well; it’s the ‘I’m about to ask for something’ smile, and Geralt knows before she speaks he’s not going to deny her.

“Could I get a Spider-Man cake for my birthday?”

 _Wasn’t expecting that_ Geralt thinks as he grins down at his daughter, “why, pray tell? I thought you liked that Black Widow woman?”

"I still _do_ , but..." Geralt doesn’t know if he loves or hates the way his little girl flushes, looking a little nervous and fidgety as she tries to find the words to continue, “I just really like Spider-Man-”

“She means she has a crush on the kid who _plays_ Spider-Man,” Yen happily explains, her teasing smile widening when Ciri whips around with a flaming face.

“ _MUM!”_ Is all she squawks before storming off, it didn't take long for them to hear her upstairs bedroom door slam shut. Geralt didn't know if he wanted to laugh or groan, his daughter was growing up and having _crushes_ now, next he'd be threatening however she brought home as a _date._

 _Please stop growing up, I hate it. I miss singing the Rolie Polie Olie theme song with you,_ he thinks a little wistfully.

Yen and Geralt stare in the direction their daughter had stomped off to with equally amused expressions, stifling their chuckles as much as possible not to add insult to injury - or risk a revenge prank, Ciri was hideously good at those. The soft _click_ of the coffee pot sounds just as they lull into a short silence, and Geralt moves to dole out coffee for himself and Yen. He can feel her staring at him, maybe it was instinct or years of marriage, but he could always tell when she was staring with some kind of intent behind her striking, sharp eyes. Geralt hopes the offer of coffee would be enough to abate whatever was going on her mind to a later date, but she wouldn’t be Yennefer if she didn’t strike when the iron was scaldingly hot.

“You’re brooding,” she starts without prompt after accepting the steaming mug from him, Geralt moves to lean against the opposite kitchen counter knowing he can’t escape and may as well get comfy. “More so than usual, anyway. Spill.”

“I fucked up,” Geralt knew there was no point in hiding anything from Yen, she’d sniff it out one way or another, and if she had to put in unnecessary work to do so, she’d make you regret it.

“What else is new?” Her voice is light as she lightly blows across the top of the mug, Geralt knew it wasn’t a barb at him but a joke - a rather truthful one, if he was being honest with himself.

He chuckles softly, enjoying the moment for as long as it takes him to swallow down a wincing sip of the scalding coffee because by then his small smile feels too heavy to bear, “I hurt him, Yen.”

“Did you do it intentionally?” Geralt doesn’t know what it says about her abilities and wit that Yen doesn’t even need to ask who ‘he’ is, but he thinks about telling her - again - that she missed her calling as a P. I.

“No,” he doesn’t meet her eyes for a moment, the shame winding around his throat tight enough to make breathing something he had to concentrate on, and he didn’t think he could do that while looking at Yen. It was the truth, he didn’t _mean_ to hurt Jaskier but- "but it doesn't change the fact that I did."

Geralt sees her nod from his periphery and waits for her to take a jab or tell him it’s not worth wasting his time being upset over. Yen knew him and knew he had an amazing ability for putting his foot in his mouth. She’d been there after whatever new attempt at a relationship or love life came to an abrupt end, either offering him words of encouragement to ‘not waste his time on people who didn’t deserve it,’ or offer him a consolation beer. This time, however, she remains silent. And while Geralt knew he would argue about any barb thrown at Jaskier, even if for his own sake, her silence unnerves him. Yen _always_ had something to say, it was something he loved about her; she was never lost for words where he always was. So it's that silence that has him looking up at her, feeling a little wrong-footed that he couldn’t read the expression on her face. It was a gentle one, a gentle but _sad_ one and Geralt felt his breathing stutter once again in his throat.

“Yen?”

“You know I never blamed you, right?” the non-sequitur throws Geralt a little more, and for a moment he wonders if they’re even having the same conversation. Yen sets down her coffee on the island before hopping down, closing the distance between them until she was stood mere inches away with an expression Geralt would have razed the earth to be rid of.

“I know we talked about it, but…” for a moment Yen looks uncertain, and while it’s not a foreign expression to Geralt, it’s one that makes his stomach sink just a little more for different reasons. “I loved you then, Geralt, before the divorce and even before that; when things were far more stilted between us than they’d ever been, I still loved you. And I still love you now, but Geralt do you know _why_ I wanted the divorce?”

Geralt’s mind races, he doesn’t understand where this conversation was coming from, nor what prompted it into being. Things between him and Yen were better now than they had been in years, to be frank. Things had been all but miserable between them in the year leading up to the divorce, but since separating they’d been able to take their time relearning about each other and discover the people they’d grown up to be. But this…what was he missing? What didn’t he understand? And what was it that he was failing to grasp that was _upsetting_ Yen so much?

“We weren’t happy anymore,” he finally answers, though his voice wavers a little, uncertain. Yen nods fractionally, but her eyes remain trained on him silently asking for more. Geralt pauses to think but comes up blank, and his next answer comes out as more of a question than anything, “and…you wanted to be with Triss?”

Yen’s expression freezes for a moment before the woman snorts a laugh and sighs, shaking her head slightly, “Geralt, if I wanted Triss during our marriage I could have had her, and knowing you, you would have overlooked me cheating if it meant I was happy.”

“I’m not a _saint,_ Yen, I wouldn’t have been okay with-” Geralt bristles at the implication of her words, but Yen wave a hand, dismissing his attempts at argument.

“Yes, you would have Geralt. I can say that because I _know_ you, sometimes better than you think you know yourself, and you’re almost annoyingly self-sacrificial when it comes to the people you love,” her words are pointed, but not angry as she places a gentle hand on his chest, earnest grey eyes meeting his. “I wanted the divorce not because I felt trapped by you, or that I thought you’d try and stop me from doing what I wanted. I wanted the divorce because I didn’t want to be the thing that stopped _you,_ Geralt. I know what it’s like to love you, Rivia, and I can say from first-hand experience it’s all-encompassing and without doubt. I never doubted you loved me for a second the moment you said it. I knew if I asked, you’d pull down a star for me, and you’d do it without hesitation because it’s just the kind of man you are. You love _so deeply,_ Geralt, and with everything you have. I never really understood how I deserved that much love from a single person.”

Staring down at Yen, Geralt can feel the burn in his eyes as his vision blurs as the rim, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Yennefer wore her own tears so fearlessly. Even when her voice cracked, Geralt felt her strength and reverence with every word.

“But we grew up, Geralt. The girl who proposed to you, who you would have moved mountains for, and she for you, wasn’t the same woman you were married to years later-”

“Yen, you know I love you,” Geralt says because he _has_ to, Yen has to know- _must_ know that he loves her, still. Even after everything.

“I know you do, Geralt, I never doubted that for a second either,” Yen moves her touch from his chest to his cheek, and he leans into the warm, gentle touch of her palm in the lull of silence before she speaks, “but are you still _in_ love with me?”

Geralt stares at Yen, but…doesn’t answer. He can’t because to answer would be to lie to her, and Geralt never wanted to lie to Yen. Her hand doesn’t pull away, but her expression warms as a thumb traces his cheekbone in soft, gentle strokes.

“And are you _in_ love with him?” She asks, her gaze fond and even a little hopeful.

Geralt doesn’t understand why, even with the answer leaving him before he can think, he feels his heart splintering to pieces, “yes.” He sees how Yen’s eyes brighten at his answer, but all Geralt can feel is closer to the edge of tears.

“Then you can still fix this, Geralt,” she moves away, stepping closer to the kitchen island to pick up her mug of coffee and taking a sip. “No matter what happened between the two of you, if you love him, it can still be fixed.”

“Yen, I _hurt_ him-”

“Unintentionally,” she cuts in, setting her mug back down, “and as I said, Geralt, you love deeply, unconditionally and with everything you have. But does _he_ know that? Use that brain of yours to come up with a way to fix this, because it won’t fix itself. You’re smarter and more emotionally apt than you give yourself credit for.”

Geralt wants to argue but, he can’t. He’s still reeling from everything Yen had said to him in all honesty. He’s sure he faintly hears Yen calling out to Ciri that it’s time for them to go, and _swears_ he bids them goodbye, too, but for the life of him, he can’t remember actually _doing_ it. Though he must have moved at some point because Geralt finds himself staring at his front door and hears Yen’s car driving away with a final, short honk.

“Jesus, Yen,” he mutters, shaking his head. Yen had dropped an anvil on him and walked away, she knew he was horrible with emotional things- ' _you’re smarter and more emotionally apt than you give yourself credit for,'_ had she really said that? To _him?_ Geralt would be the first to admit he had the emotional capabilities of a tree stump, but he knew Yen would lie about it…not after a conversation like _that_ \- as one-sided as it may have been.

Running a hand through his hair, Geralt moves upstairs to his bedroom. Pausing outside Ciri’s bedroom door after glancing in, eyeing the small tornado of a mess left in the wake of packing for her weekend with Yen. Ciri wasn’t normally a messy girl, and Geralt feels himself chuckle softly when it hits him, _payback is bittersweet._ Ciri was almost as passive-aggressive as Vesemir sometimes. Geralt walks into his daughter’s room, flicking on the light switch as he does, and decides to start with gathering up whatever looks clean to fold away. The motions of folding and tidying were ones he was used to, and Yen was right, he had to find a way to fix things between him and Jaskier. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

Geralt wasn’t stupid enough to think Jaskier loved him, and after yesterday’s events, he didn’t even deserve to entertain the notion anymore. But Jaskier must have at least thought of him as a _friend,_ certainly something more meaningful than just a client; Geralt had many clients of his own, and he didn’t go to breakfast on a whim with any of them. So Jaskier _must_ have seen Geralt as something more than just a client, if not as a friend and that alone was worth trying to salvage. Because Jaskier _was_ fun to be around, Geralt could admit to himself.

The man was genuine in a way Geralt never really thought people could be and knew it rubbed off on him if only for the fact that he felt more like himself around Jaskier than he had in the years since the divorce. He was almost cliché in his boyish charm, but Geralt would be remiss to dismiss the strength Jaskier carried just beneath the surface. Jaskier was honest, and that honesty shone so clearly in their moments together when he was most vulnerable under Geralt’s touch, trusting Geralt not to hurt him when he easily could have. Maybe things couldn’t go back to the way they had been, but Geralt didn’t want to imagine his life without Jaskier _somehow_ a part of it in whatever way the man felt comfortable with.

 _'So your…clients, they all call you Jaskier?'_ he’d had asked the question not knowing what to expect, _'no, they call me Dandelion.'_ and that answer had been unexpected, to say the least. Jaskier didn’t use that name with everyone, to those he escorted for he was ‘Dandelion,’ but to Geralt, he was ‘Jaskier.’ Maybe that meant something, meant that some semblance of trust could be salvaged and- _wait_.

“His name is Julian,” Geralt’s voices comes out a little wrecked at the realization, his movements slowing to a stop, “it’s fucking _Julian.”_ Geralt stares down at Ciri’s plushie clutched in his hands, as though the poor stuffed animal in his death-grip understood the magnitude of his words.

“He was about to say something,” Geralt whispers to himself, staring down at the toy he remembers Jaskier’s halting words, ‘ _Geralt I…I’ve been meaning to talk to you, and I…maybe I’m wrong, but...well, Geralt I-‘_

“Fuck,” Geralt drops the toy, darting out of Ciri’s room to his own where he knew his phone lay on his bedside table charging, one thought in mind; _what was he going to say?_ Geralt snatches up his phone and hesitates, but only for a second. He needed to know, he _had_ to know…even if the answer broke his heart. Yen was right; he's in love with Jaskier, and he’d live to regret it if he didn’t at least _try_ to fix things.

He sends the text before his insecurities can make him second guess himself, and when he sees that the text had been delivered, Geralt isn’t so surprised that he doesn’t regret it.

**_Geralt - Now: We need to talk_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I got a little choked up writing it I'm not gonna lie. I want to thank everyone for their support for this over this story once again, I adore hearing from you in the comments about your thoughts and I hope to see you next chapter! xxoxoo


	12. One Step Forward (Two Steps Back)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The past is always knocking at the door, trying to break through into today.”_  
>  ~ Neil Gaiman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please see endnotes for possible trigger warnings before proceeding!

“ **I’ll be back by the end of the week,** ” Filavandrel sounds a little distracted as he speaks, and Jaskier can hear the shuffle of papers in the background as he continues. “ **We should go over the last few chapters, just to tighten them up a bit.** ”

“Sounds good,” Jaskier replies automatically feeling a little distracted, but what else was new? He’s _been_ distracted all week. There were a few more words exchanged for a date to meet but Jaskier barely registers them, and by the time he ends the call, he’s forgotten what Filavandrel had said. It was okay, Filavandrel was rather anal about time-keeping and usually sent Jaskier at least three reminders beforehand.

Geralt hadn’t contacted Jaskier after The Text - and yes, the text message he’d stared at over the past week was a titleholder in his mind; no conversation leading to a happy ending started like _that._ But he’d been grateful for the space, it gave him the time he needed to put his head and heart back together after the morning at the diner, and the anvil of Yennefer’s words into perspective. After Geralt’s text and his talk with Yen he’s been…well, not _hiding,_ but trying to put the pieces of a plan together. He knew it was unfair, to keep Geralt in the dark while he tried to sort himself out, but Jaskier thought it was the lesser evil. Too worried he’d say something he didn’t mean - or worse, something he _did -_ only to burn whatever was left of the bridge between them.

Jaskier felt a little selfish for it, but he knew he wanted Geralt in his life in whatever way he could have him. If Geralt decided to keep their relationship professional, and by that he means 'sexual,' well…Jaskier thinks he could handle that. His heart would be a little slow on the uptake, but he’d manage, even if it took time- _oh who am I kidding?_ Jaskier sighs. A sexual relationship with Geralt, as amazing as it was - and it was _spectacularly_ amazing - wasn’t something he’d be able to come to terms with. He wanted Geralt too much for that; he’d already failed once, trying to separate his heart from their encounters, and now that he _knew_ how he felt about the man trying to go forward with the same arrangement would be near-impossible. No matter how much he wanted to be with Geralt, sexually or otherwise, he knew his damnably fragile heart wouldn’t be able to withstand a second blow. Geralt had already ruined him for anyone else, as cliché as it felt to admit, it was the unfortunate truth. In Jaskier’s eyes, no one could compare to that broody brute of a man with a golden heart and eyes; the man that had unknowingly, without even _trying,_ stolen his.

 _So being fuck buddies is out,_ he silently concludes, though not for the first time.

He’d settle for awkward acquaintances if it came to that. Yen would likely be alright with having Jaskier around more. Ciri was a delight and - if Jaskier did say so himself - was pretty sure the girl liked him well enough to have around more frequently, especially after he’d made her his famous fudge brownies the night they showed up at his house. And maybe in the future, he and Geralt would be comfortable enough around each other to share a coffee or beer without the buffer of others. It sounded like a pleasant backup plan, which only solidified and turned his tentativeness for his Plan A into something more solid, more _sure_. Because the truth of the matter was, more than anything, Jaskier yearned to be able to call Geralt a _friend._ To be able to be a part of the older man’s life by virtue of Geralt _wanting_ him there in it. While 'friends' was a far cry from 'lovers' Jaskier wanted it more than anything, because Jaskier didn't only love Geralt, but _liked_ him too. And though a sad, bittersweet part of him knew he always would love Geralt, over the week, Jaskier had managed to give up on the little fantastical fantasy of Geralt loving him back; men like Geralt didn’t fall in love with boys like Jaskier, it was just a simple fact of reality.

 _But that’s okay,_ Jaskier thinks to himself, even if the thought snares at his heart, _being a friend is the next best thing._ It was the truth. Even if he couldn’t kiss Geralt anymore, Jaskier would be able to call him for a movie night or to rant about a rather annoying day, maybe even listen while _Geralt_ grunted about his own work troubles; even if Jaskier couldn’t feel Geralt on him, _in_ him, he’d be able to hug the man hello when they met up and goodbye when they parted; even if Jaskier could no longer lay on Geralt while the man held him, Jaskier would be able to be the one Geralt felt relaxed enough to speak to over waffles and coffee. Jaskier loved Geralt, and there was more to loving a person than loving the sex with them. Not that sexual pleasure and trust weren’t important, but even with it off the table, Jaskier’s affections for the man didn’t dim in the slightest. The absences of the deeper, physical intimacy would be missed, _dearly,_ but the absences of those intimacies wouldn't taint nor lessen the potential for other positive - if platonic - private moments between them. He wanted to be Geralt’s friend and he _would_ be, even if it killed him, damn it.

 _Friends it is, then,_ Jaskier thinks with a kind of finality that leaves a little spring in his step. With hints of a smile curling at the corners of his lips, Jaskier feels the embers of hope Yen had given him finally warming into a cozy fire his chest for the first time all week. He could do this, he could be friends with Geralt and we _would_ be grateful for it, lucky for the chance at it even.

Jaskier continues down the dimly lit street with a newfound confidence in his step. The street felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. His potential new client had requested to meet at a pub downtown, which was fine with Jaskier, the more public the setting the better. The client hadn’t given a name, but that was nothing new; newbies were generally nervous, at first. The man had come as a recommendation from his past client Fringilla, she wasn’t the most pleasant of women if he was being honest, but she’d always paid well for Jaskier’s time so he never complained. Distracted enough by his thoughts he almost trampled over a street artist and apologized profusely, tipping the women who looked about ready to whack him upside the head with her violin. But perhaps the abruptness of the encounter was a good thing, as it brought him back to reality where he realized he’d reached the arranged pub.

 _I know this place,_ the realization settles a little uncomfortably, low and coiling in Jaskier’s gut, making his steps falter slightly where he slows to a stop. The pub was a popular one, but one that honestly didn’t hold many fond memories for Jaskier. Maybe he'd have recognized the place had he known the address and not just the name because it seems the pub had been renovated; a new name hanging over the otherwise still far too similar rustic pub. _Go home,_ warns his instincts but knew he was just getting to himself, freaking himself out for no reason. The past was the past, and he was a professional. Plus it was too late to try and arrange for a different meeting spot now. It was just a coincidence, and if things went well, Jaskier would ask the client that they meet in other places from then on. _There, easy fix,_ he tells himself as he pushes past the familiar heavy, polished cherry wood and glass pub door, _no need to overreact._ However, despite his self-reassurances, Jaskier sticks to the front of the pub after casting a quick look over to the back just _…just to be sure._

 _Stop freaking yourself out, Jask, there’s no reason he’d be here._ Jaskier takes a seat at a high table by the pub’s windows, _it’s just a shitty coincidence and nothing more, so relax._ It was nearing on two years that Jaskier hadn’t seen him, so there was no reason for him to feel so antsy. Jaskier waves down a barmaid and orders a beer, he’d stop himself after the one as it wouldn’t do to meet with a new client plastered, but he needed something to take the edge off. Casting another glance around the pub, he does notice a few slight differences to what he recalls the last time he'd been in the place; the flooring was polished panelled wood of varying browns, instead of the old two-coloured checkered wood floors he remembers always being far too slick for drunkards to safely stumble around on; there was a semi-new pinball machine tucked into the corner at the back of the pub, along with a new shuffleboard table to accompany the stained billiard table; the walls were redone to darker warm tones than the splotchy maroon Jaskier remembered always finding to stains on. Overall the changes were rather nice, giving the pub a dim, intimate feel despite the loud music playing overhead.

"Here you go, dear!" the waitress says over the music playing, having to shout just a little to be heard over the din of music and people. It was a Friday night, so noise at a pub was hardly anything to phone home about.

"Thanks!" Jaskier answers, getting a nod in reply before the woman weaves her way through patrons to another table, expertly balancing a tray almost twice as wide as herself all the way through.

Jaskier takes one long pull from the beer, the cold fizz tickling the back of his throat and wills himself to relax. Instead, shifting his focus to pulling out his phone to check the time. The man should arrive soon but until then…Jaskier opens up his messenger app, selecting Geralt’s name. He stares at the text bar trying to think of how to start the conversation; Geralt more or less left the ball in his court, so it shouldn’t feel as intimidating as it does to text him back. He’d memorized the man’s number for how much he’s open and _re_ opened the text from him, trying and failing to come up with the right words to message him the past week. Geralt’s text was alarming and put Jaskier on edge, yes, _but_ he’d also texted first. The fact of the matter was Geralt didn’t have to text at all, if he really thought about it, so the fact he _did_ could bode well for Jaskier. Plus, Yen’s words from their impromptu movie night added a secondary layer of comfort to that reasoning.

Jaskier worried at his lower lip for a moment longer before finally deciding to tap out a message. He’d keep it simple but not standoffish, make it clear that he welcomed the conversation that was - if he was being honest - long overdue by this point. For all him and Geralt’s clear communications prior to their scenes, they clearly lacked it post-scene which wasn't too great because friendships thrived on communication, right? Jaskier went back and forth on his message, trying to gather the right words and make sure he didn’t come off passive-aggressive nor too eager. However, before Jaskier could hit ‘send’ to what he felt was a good mix of a neutral-toned text but still an open-invitation for more conversation, a heavy hand lands on his shoulder making him jump and fumble with his phone. The device slips out of his hand, but Jaskier _just_ manages to save it from a none too pleasant landing on the sticky bar floor. _Who the hell?_ He turns to yell at whoever thought scaring the shit out of him was a good idea and- no. _No, no, nonono-_

“Hello again, Dandi baby,” a voice purrs so close Jaskier can feel the heat of the words fanning across his face, the hand on his shoulder tightening when he tries to jerk away. “Don’t go makin’ a scene now, Dandi, or should I say, ‘ _Julian_.’” That, more than anything, makes Jaskier freeze. _How does he-_

Olgierd Everec rounds the table and sits across Jaskier, grinning just as smugly as the last time he’d seen the bastard’s face when the cops were hauling him away. The man looked the same, from his cleanly cut facial hair to the shaved sides, a mix of rugged, sharp facial features with even sharper edges. Though there's a jagged scar right at the length of his hairline now, the skin bisected by a badly healed scar on the left side of his head, and Jaskier almost laughs at the sight of it; his parting gift to Olgierd on their last night together. Or, perhaps more accurately, what was _supposed_ to be their last night together. He watches, dumbstruck as Olgierd takes Jaskier’s beer by the neck with a lazy grip, tipping the drink back enough to take a sip, his blue-green eyes locked on Jaskier all the while.

“But you prefer to go by 'Jaskier,' don’t you?” He chuckles, gesturing the beer towards Jaskier who already feels his hands beginning to tremble. “Surprised you’re still whorin’, thought you would have found something more respectable by now, though I guess I can’t complain since it’s what brought you here.”

“You’re the new client,” it wasn’t a question, but Olgierd’s expression is one of patronizing surprise, as though Jaskier wouldn’t be able to put two and two together - he’d always thought of Jaskier as a dumb slut, told him as much several times, and even now after so long Jaskier still feels his hackles rising because of it.

“Looks like you got a brain in that pretty head of yours after all, though clearly not a very good one,” Olgierd snorts, taking another sip of Jaskier’s beer, “Fringilla’s a friend of a friend, and when I heard you’d taken her on as a client a while back it didn’t take much convincing to have her contact you. Bitch is a sucker for a good favour, people’s privacy be damned. This was our place, remember, Dandi?”

Jaskier looks around the pub while Olgierd talks, trying to think of a way to sneak - or hell, even _run_ \- out of the place without being caught. But he knew it would be useless, Olgierd was larger and stronger than him, faster too - Jaskier’s left arm aches in memory of the spiral fracture the man had caused the last time he’d tried to outrun him.

“You’re violating the restraining order,” he knew it was a silly, useless thing to say the moment the words left him, but maybe he could _reason_ his way out of this-

“A piece of paper hasn’t stopped me from seeing you for months, _Jaskier,_ do you really think it’ll stop me now?” Jaskier feels his stomach sinking, what did he mean by ‘months’? “you always looked so cute when you were confused.” Olgierd chuckles softly, leaning forward in his seat to grip Jaskier’s forearm, the left one, and Jaskier can’t hold back the flinch when he does, “I’ve been keepin’ tabs on you, Julian, ever since I got released from the hole you threw me into-”

“You sent me to the _hospital!”_ Jaskier hisses, loud enough for Olgierd’s patronizing gaze to turn hard, cold enough to send a cold dread down his spine while tightening his grip further in warning.

“And you busted my head open," he growls, glaring at Jaskier with a look menacing enough to halt his words before relaxing his features into something more neutral. "Besides, you weren’t doing as you were told, what else was I supposed to do?” His voice is calmer when he speaks this time, but his hold on Jaskier remains just as painfully tight, “I tried to get you to relax-“

“Drugging someone against their will isn’t ‘trying to get them to _relax’-”_

“and you _still_ wouldn’t listen, it’s your fault you ended up where you did.” Jaskier wanted to _scream_ at the asshole sat across from him. How was any of that _his_ fault?

Olgierd was one of Jaskier’s first clients and by virtue of that, one of his longest up until two years ago. There had always been something… _off_ about Olgierd that made it hard for Jaskier to fully trust him, but he trusted him enough and - as he would later realize - it was to his own detriment. Olgierd was charming and persuasive when he wanted to be, and had convinced Jaskier of his reasoning the first few times he’d crossed Jaskier’s lines; that the 'bad' moments between them were _his_ fault, not Olgierd's. The moments of violence and overstepping of Jaskier’s boundaries weren’t overt like they were towards the end, but subtle prods at Jaskier’s rules, poking _just_ enough to find weak points but not hard enough to break. It had all been a subtle build peppered in between intimate and jovial moments, making it easy for Jaskier to believe when Olgierd would say it was _his_ fault, or that _Jaskier_ was being too much of a 'prude' about certain things. Olgierd always claimed to care about him and was just ‘looking out' for Jaskier’s best interests, and what a load of _shite_ that had been.

By the end of it all, it took Jaskier being rushed to the hospital after a particularly bad night with Olgierd for him to see his situation for what it was; abuse, plain and simple. Jaskier had been hesitant to call it abuse when he was hired by Olgierd for his services, _choosing_ to be there with him; so every time Olgierd slapped him a little too hard or pressed on when Jaskier tried saying ‘no,’ he didn’t feel like it was his place to deny his long time client and someone he considered a _friend_. As Olgierd always pointed out, he _chose_ to be there and was well compensated for his time.

It honestly hadn’t occurred to Jaskier to seek out help until the doctor that was splinting and casting his arm had asked him what happened; she’d been subtle enough with her questions that he didn’t really hesitate to speak about the incident, but blunt enough in her answers that he couldn’t poke holes in them, either. She’d stood by his hospital bed while an officer took his statement about the attack and his attempts at self-defence, her delicate hand a warm comfort on his shoulder silently supporting him through it. He still sent Dr. De Vries birthday cards and chocolates in thanks, he’d just sent her some not a month ago, in fact. For an odd, wild moment, Jaskier wished she was _here_ ; her stern gaze would send Olgierd running off with his tail between his legs, Jaskier was sure.

“What do you want, Olgierd?” Jaskier grits out, sounding far more confident than he felt, but no less angry.

“Julian, I spent _years_ shaping you into my perfect little plaything, do you really think a single spat with the coppers and a sheet of paper is going to keep me from claiming my reward?”

Jaskier scoffs, his fear giving way to annoyance, “you’re kidding me, right? You’d actually risk _jail_ to fuck me? You need to get your priorities in check, Olgie-”

Olgierd yanks Jaskier forward quick and hard enough that the younger man is forced to lean his torso on the dark wood table, flinching at how the blunt edge digs painfully into his breastbone. Olgierd stares down at Jaskier, his blank face more unnerving than a harsh glare or glittering mirth; Jaskier knew what those expressions entailed, but this left nothing to decipher, and Jaskier _hated_ that he knows Olgierd was aware of that. So he waited, waited like a damned _dog_ waiting for its owner’s instructions, and right then Jaskier bit back the urge to spit in Olgierd’s face; getting his jaw busted now wouldn’t help anyone, let alone himself. Olgierd finally grins, his other hand coming up to grip Jaskier’s jaw and run through his hair before gripping the back of it. Jaskier felt, inexplicably, like crying in pure anxiety-ridden frustration when Olgierd ran his narrow nose along his cheekbone. Jaskier screwed his eyes shut when he felt his hot, humid breathing across his jaw, his lips ghosting over the raised skin.

“Dandi, I take what’s mine,” Olgierd whispers against the side of his face like a lover, and Jaskier loathes the intimacy of it, trying in vain to pull away only for the man’s grip to tighten like a vice on him; to the rest of the bar, they must look like a couple having ‘a moment,’ but little did they know Jaskier was in his own personal hell.

“And you’re mine, Dandi, you’ve just forgotten that after _thinking_ you’ve sent me away,” Olgierd pulls back enough to meet Jaskier’s glare with a smug smirk, the hand in his hair moving back to his jaw and forcing Jaskier to maintain eye contact. “We were perfect together, Dandi, all I need to do is remind you of that,” Jaskier jerks back the moment Olgierd releases his jaw, but his left arm remains trapped in the man’s grip, “and we’ll have plenty of time for you to relearn your place, at my side, of course.”

Something about the way Olgierd says it, the _surety_ about his own words, hell even the undertones of outright _glee_ in them makes Jaskier’s heart feel like it’s sinking to his feet, “Olgierd we’re in a city, you can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this-”

“ _Julian,_ I know you’re stupid, but you aren’t _this_ dense,” Olgierd scoffs, rolling his eyes to snatch up the near-empty beer bottle again, “I made the mistake of letting you run off to a hospital once before and I don’t plan on making it again, where we’re going, you’ll have to make do with a first aid kit and nothing else. Though, you won’t need the kit, _if_ you behave.”

Terror rips through Jaskier, sudden and sharp, and Olgierd must see it because the man laughs and _laughs._ Jaskier feels torn between wanting to scream, fight, and cry. _I have to get help, I have to get_ away _from him,_ Jaskier thinks desperately.

“Don’t look so scared, Dani,” Olgierd tries to soothe, bringing Jaskier left arm up to press a kiss to his wrist, but Jaskier is too numb to register the feeling, “you’ll love the cabin, no more noise or light pollution and you’ll have me. You could work on your writing in that peaceful place, I know how much your silly little stories meant to you. Won't that be nice? It’s a long drive, but the car’s packed and ready to go when you are-”

“I’m not going _anywhere_ with you,” Jaskier spits out, but his words tremble despite himself. He just...he felt so fucking _scared._ Things like this didn't happen in reality, didn't happen to _Jaskier; I want to be home, want this to be a nightmare, please,_ _PLEASE-_

“Yes you will, Dandi,” Olgierd’s words are nonchalant like it’s a simple fact instead of a deranged statement. Jaskier tastes acrid bile at the back of his throat. “It’s inevitable, so either come along and make it easy on yourself, or I shove you into the boot for the drive; it’s your choice to make, I’m kind like that. Plus I’ve driven up there before, settin’ everything up for our arrival, it’s a beautiful drive you wouldn’t want to miss-”

 _I need to get out of here,_ he thinks as Olgierd continues to wax poetic about his ego and its wants, and where he plans on kidnapping Jaskier to. _I'm about to be kidnapped, oh God,_ the thought punches a whole new level of anxiety through Jaskier's solar plexus, a new feat of nerves and fear he never thought possible. _Jask, calm_ down, _you_ have _to calm down,_ a voice urges him, a voice that sounds like his best friend, and he desperately wished Priscilla was here - preferably with her pepper spray. _You're smart Jaskier, so use this time to_ think _, but first, you_ have _to calm down, damn it!_ he's sure Filavandrel would tell him, because Filavandrel was pragmatic and also _right_ most times, even if Jaskier would never admit to it. But he listens to his instincts urges to him, each one a new voice of someone he loved to soothe his anxiety and fear. The feelings were still there, trying to be rid of them entirely would be a waste of time, but he just needed to calm himself enough to _think._

He hadn't been listening to Olgierd when his blood was rushing in his ears, and he didn't bother now. If anything, Jaskier knew he'd likely heard it all before, and whatever bits of Olgierd’s new fantasy he hadn’t heard, he sincerely didn't _want_ to hear. _Okay,_ think _Jaskier, just let him blather on and think;_ he couldn’t outfight nor outrun Olgierd, but the bastard was overconfident and Jaskier _could_ use that to his advantage. Making a scene or calling for help would only screw him over, if Olgierd has been planning this for as long as he’s claimed, he probably has contingencies for Jaskier trying to make a scene- _wait, that’s it!_

Jaskier glances down, only for a split second, but long enough to reassure himself of the phone in his right hand. He still hadn’t pocketed it, and it was hidden _just_ below the edge of the high table. He couldn’t call anyone, but maybe he could text someone? _He’ll see,_ Jaskier feels frustrated by the thought but knew he only had _one_ real chance at this, and he couldn't risk Olgierd catching on - the man was egotistical, not _stupid._ Jaskier just needed to slip away, just for a few seconds to text someone for help, but the next question was _who?_ Filavandrel was out of town, Yen and Triss couldn’t be dragged into this…there was Mousesack, but his older mentor lived across town and Jaskier worried he wouldn’t get here in time. Jaskier had friends, but none close enough he could trust with _this_ and- _oh fucking shit…I can’t do this to him, but I don’t have much of a choice now do I?_ But if he really thought about it, it was perfect; Geralt was former military, and Olgierd was just a thug with a mean streak, he'd be safe going up against him. And more than anything, Jaskier trusted Geralt to help him.

It was now or never but at least he had a plan, well, _half_ a plan but it was still _something_ and he was running out of time. Olgierd said he'd wait for Jaskier's willingness for them to leave, but it wouldn't be the first time the man went back on his word. Jaskier moves to stand without saying anything, discreetly tucking his phone into his front pocket as he turns away from the table. He hadn’t honestly expected to get far, especially not with Olgierd’s death-grip on his forearm, but he needed the distraction to hide away his phone. Jaskier winces in pain when Olgierd tugs him closer by the arm, but he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a pained yelp.

“Where do you think you’re goin’? What did I say about makin’ a scene, _Jaskier,_ ” Jaskier _hated_ that Olgierd knew his name, both real and preferred, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. He had to keep his plan at the forefront of his mind.

“I need to take a piss,” Jaskier replies, keeping his voice and expression as neutral as possible, maybe perhaps even sounding a little bored just to annoy Olgierd; fear would be pointless, to Olgierd he was prey, caught and trapped, but that didn’t mean Jaskier had to play the part of _scared_ prey. “Unless you want me to piss on your shoes?”

Olgierd’s replying smirk unnerves Jaskier but he doesn’t show it, or at least tries not to; Olgierd _needs_ to believe he’s won and that Jaskier is just biding his time to the ‘inevitable’ end Olgierd had planned for him. There’s a tense moment of silence between them, and while Jaskier’s instincts screamed at him to yank away and _run,_ he remained still and met Olgierd’s gaze head-on. Olgierd’s grin widens, tugging Jaskier a little closer to speak into his ear.

“I know where you live, Jaskier,” he warns before _finally_ releasing Jaskier’s aching forearm. Jaskier simply nods, jaw taut but this was still a step in the right direction, all he had to do was- “and leave your phone here, wouldn’t want you getting any dumb ideas.”

 _FUCK!_ Jaskier internally screams, but takes the device out of his pocket and sets it on the table without a fight; Olgierd wasn’t stupid, but Jaskier had _hoped_ he’d be egotistical enough to underestimate him. Clearly not. But all hope wasn’t lost, he just needed to bide his time and find some other way to get help.

“Good boy.” Jaskier sneers at Olgierd but says nothing, moving through the cluster of crowds towards the restrooms, feeling the man’s eyes at his back.

His steps were a little slower now as he tried to come up with a new plan, feeling closer and closer to tears with each step when nothing was coming to him. But he couldn’t just _do_ nothing. If he slipped out the back he could try to find help, try to _run,_ but there was no promising Olgierd wouldn’t somehow find him first. And even if he _did_ manage to get away, where would he go? He couldn’t put Yen, Triss, or God forbid _Ciri_ in danger by going to them, his own house was out, and he didn’t know where Geralt lived. This couldn’t be it, it _couldn’t_ end like this. Jaskier pushes open the restroom door, leaning against it and feels his anxiety beginning to overtake his reason to the point breathing was becoming too much and too _hard_ all at once. Why did he think Olgierd would stay away? Why did he think he was _safe_ from the man, how could he have been so _stupid-_

“Hey mate, you alright?” A voice rings out from across the empty bathroom, or at least, the bathroom Jaskier had _thought_ was empty. “Are you gonna be sick-”

“I need your phone,” Jaskier blurts out, rushing over to the stranger, “I-I’m sorry, but I lost mine and I _really_ need-”

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down,” the man holds his hands up, trying to calm Jaskier who feels like _screaming_ with every wasted minute; Olgierd could come after him _any second_ and- “here.”

The man holds out his phone for Jaskier, and for the first time in what feels like _centuries,_ Jaskier feels relief flooding through his veins. He snatches the phone from the man, he knew it was rude but he didn’t have _time_. He doesn’t hesitate, punching in Geralt’s number, and feels a panicked hilarity at the fact that his nervous, surreptitious revisits to the man’s last text had been the reason he’d recalled the number so easily. It occurs to him, as he puts the phone to his ear, that this would be their first conversation since the diner and feels torn between laughter and hysterical sobbing at the thought. Jaskier feels the stranger’s concerned gaze on him, but can’t bring himself to ease the man’s worries when his heart is beating so wildly in his throat. _I'm going to be sick._

“Pick up, pick up, _please pick up!”_ Jaskier chants through desperate whispers, his voice cracking as he feels himself reaching a breaking point, willing Geralt to pick up his phone and praying to any and _every_ deity out there to compel the man to do just that. “Geralt I need you, _please-”_

“Are you okay?” The stranger asks, and Jaskier almost feels comforted by the genuine concern across his features, but can't bring himself to really take in that comfort because...Geralt doesn't pick up.

His phone's off.

"I-" Jaskier doesn't know how to follow up the word, feeling the strings that tied him to any semblance of hope he'd managed to latch on to has been ripped apart. What was going to do? Olgierd would come looking for him if he didn't go back soon, and even if he did, what then? Oh Christ, what the _hell_ was he supposed to _do-_

"You okay, mate?" the man asks, taking a careful step towards Jaskier. "Is there someone else you can call?"

"No," Jaskier's almost surprised by the small voice, more so when he realizes it's his own.

 _This isn’t the end, Pankratz, do_ not _give up. Don’t you_ dare _give up so easily,_ a voice in his head that sounds so much like Yennefer warns him, and it was right, he just…he just had to bide his time, he’d figure _something_ out. He couldn’t give up, he had most of the night to try to get away, but that is _if_ Olgierd doesn’t get tired of Jaskier wasting time and simply drags him out of the pub and to the trunk of his car. _Take it step-by-step, Jaskier, one chapter at a time, remember?_ Triss is soothing tone reminds him, and...yeah, he always used to tell her how he'd sketch out a whole story in his head, but take it one chapter at a time when actually writing. _It’s not the end, not yet. Just take it one chapter at a time._ Jaskier stands up a little straighter, handing the man his phone back. The chapter of his first plan was at a close, but it didn't mean it was the end of this book yet.

He had to get back before Olgierd caught on and Jaskier lost whatever benefit of the doubt he’d managed to garner. However, before Jaskier turns to leave he stops, turning back to the man, “if the person calls back, please tell him Jaskier needs him, I…I’ll be here, likely for most of the night. Please, just- just tell Geralt Jaskier needs him, please, promise me you'll tell him.”

"I will," Jaskier turns to leave before the man tries to stop him, but pauses at the restroom door when he calls out for Jaskier, “are you sure I can’t help?”

Jaskier looks at the man over his shoulder, Olgierd was a dangerous bastard and this man didn't deserve the pain he could bring. Jaskier tries to smile, but knows it's a parody of one at best, “thank you for letting me use your phone…just please let Geralt know where I am if he calls back.”

 _Don't give up, Jask,_ a warm baritone tells him, and Jaskier hates that the last time he might hear Geralt's voice will be through memory alone. He wants to savour the memory of it but knows he doesn't have the time. Rolling his shoulders and straightening his back, Jaskier sets his expression to one hopefully void of the fear and panic he feels coursing through him. With Geralt's warm voice in his mind, Jaskier heads back into the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> \- Slight non-con/harassment (nothing overt, but someone will not take "no" for an answer)  
> \- Mentions of past non-con  
> \- Mentions of past non-con drugging  
> \- Mentions of past physical abuse  
> \- Mentions of stalking  
> \- Mentions of gaslighting
> 
> Hello everyone!  
> I want to start off for apologizing for the late update; my mother had surgery recently so I spent the last few days with her and she's doing much better now, thankfully! After getting back from the hospital today I finally had time to hunker down and get cracking on this new chapter, and while definitely a tense one, I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> Thank you all for your support for this story, this chapter was an unplanned wild ride but it does bring us closer to the story's conclusion and I'm honestly torn between being upset we're so close to the end but elated to continue on with this story and show you all what's in store for these two! Ahhhh!!!! Hahaha anyway, thank you all so much again, I love you lots and hope to see you next chapter!! xxoxoo


	13. I'll Be There (For You) Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too little, not late...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Please see endnotes for possible trigger warnings before proceeding!

Geralt usually kept himself to three beers at most, and nothing harder since he quit drinking - well, mostly quit. Beers he could handle in small quantities, a social drink like wine was for most, but Geralt didn’t like the man he became when imbued with too much liquor; he became too rowdy, too irresponsible, reckless and out of control. Geralt didn’t like feeling out of control if only for the nights it would lead to. He still remembers - with embarrassingly sharp clarity despite his blurred vision at the time - when he’d gotten so drunk with his brothers he thought a skinny dip in the Themes would be a great idea after a getting a ridiculous impulse-haircut. Lambert _still_ had his mugshot hung up in his living room, and no matter how man many times Geralt tore the damn thing down a new one was always there to greet him _just_ a little larger in size than the last. Geralt stopped attacking the framed image after the fourth time, the last thing he wanted was for Lambert to turn his obnoxious mullet head into a mural on his wall. He’d never put it past his youngest brother to do it, either.

So Geralt watched on in relative amusement while his brothers tussled, leaning against the side of the billiard table with his first beer of the night’s neck nestled comfortably between his fingers, where he knew it would likely remain half-filled for the next several hours. And while a bit of it ending up his nose was unplanned, Geralt couldn’t _quite_ regret taking a sip _just_ as Eskel managed to fit Lambert’s underwear over their brother’s head.

“I’M GOING TO MURDER YOU!” Lambert practically screeches, wriggling the underwear off his head before lunging at a cackling Eskel, bum-rushing the older man to the ground.

“Sometimes I wonder why I agreed to marry him,” a sedate but amused voice comments, Geralt chuckles and looks over at Keira leaning beside him on the billiard table’s edge, pulling herself up to sit on it.

“If memory serves, _you_ proposed to _him,_ ” Geralt chuckles, looking back over to his brothers who had each other in headlocks, “you only have yourself to blame.”

“Well your memory is shite, Geralt,” Keira chuckles, taking a sip of her wine, “I _agreed_ to marry Lambert on the condition he took my last name, ‘Keira Smith’? What am I, an uncreative stripper? Now Lambert _Metz_ -”

“Sounds like a French dietary pill?” Geralt teasingly suggests, grinning wider when his sister-in-law snorts a rather unattractive laugh.

“Okay, fine, that’s fair,” Keira giggles into her wine glass, watching the brothers wrestling for a moment longer before nudging Geralt. “So…Triss tells me there’s a special someone you’re seeing, how’s that going?”

The mouth of Geralt’s beer stops just an inch away from its journey to his parted lips, movements stilling at the question. Keira was family and he couldn’t begrudge Triss updating her on his life when Geralt was…well, less than forthcoming on his best days.But the levity of the night suddenly felt flat at the reminder of _why_ his brothers had decided to have an impromptu Game Night. They knew Geralt was feeling down, even if they graced him the kindness of not prying - which was a rarity in and of itself. Because that fact of the matter was, for all that Geralt tried to hide it, he _was_ feeling rather defeated lately. Geralt knew his attempts at concealing that fact were less than successful if _Eskel_ had caught on to his grouchy brooding enough to even suggest a game night, but Geralt had gone along with it in hopes of forgetting - even if only for a few hours - that Jaskier _still_ hadn’t texted him back. And while reminder didn’t renew the ache he felt in his chest, that was a constant these days, it did sharpen the sting that had been dulled by the distraction of his brothers.

“It’s…going, I guess,” Geralt settles on and brings the mouth of the beer to his lips for a drink, his throat a little too dry and scratchy for his liking.

Keira hums but says nothing for a moment, though that sound alone tells Geralt far more than he’d like; Keira’s ability to read between lines and what was left unsaid could very nearly rival Yen’s, but unlike Yen - at least when it came to Geralt-Keira was far more economical with her words.

“Did I ever tell you about my first date with Lambert?” Geralt looks over to Keira, a little confused at the non-sequitur but shakes his head all the same. She smiles fondly, taking a sip from her glass, red lipstick re-staining the rim. Geralt glances back at his brothers, Lambert currently had the upper hand and was giving Eskel a rather vicious nuggie, a bemused smile tugging at his mouth when he looks back at Keira with a curious look, “he said he took you to the Kew Gardens.”

“That was our _second_ date, no matter how much he claims it was the first,” she chuckles softly, “our first date was a Jack in the Box drive-through at three in the morning, dressed in sweatpants and oversized hoodies struggling with caffeine jitters. We were binge-studying for our Econ final and I was about to pass out from hunger, so he offered to get me food. We made out in the parking lot after…who knew the taste of fries would make for a memorable first kiss?”

“LAMBERT GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!” Eskel bellows, tackling their brother over the back of the couch, Geralt feels torn between wanting to laugh and knowing he should probably break them up soon before one of them sets the other on fire. It wouldn’t be the first time, in all honesty. Lambert _still_ wasn’t allowed to be around campfires.

“I knew he liked me,” Keira continues, looking back over to Geralt who meets her gaze, “but back then I was of the silly mind that guys should make the first move, so I waited…I’m glad he took the first step though, otherwise I would have missed out on all this,” she gestures to Eskel, Lambert and Geralt, but her tone is sincere despite her sarcastic expression.

Geralt grins genially at Keira and raises a brow, he didn’t doubt everything she was was true, but he knew she always had a point to make, “I feel like there’s a moral to the story I’m missing.”

“Never let it be said Vesemir honed in on you boys' attention to emotional detail,” Keira huffs, but the quirk at the corner of her painted mouth takes any of the intended bite out of her words. “The _moral,_ Geralt, is that things are a lot more simple than we make them out to be in our heads; whatever is going on with you and this mystery _someone_ likely isn’t as convoluted as you made it out to be to yourself.”

“As if you aren’t just as guilty of that,” Geralt teases back but does take her words to heart. Maybe he _was_ overcomplicating everything with Jaskier. If his hardheaded brother could bring down the complications of asking someone out to a potato-flavoured make out session in a fast-food parking lot, Geralt thought maybe he could simmer down his own overthinking to simpler strategies; like _talking_ to Jaskier, for one.

“We all are, which is why a reminder now and then helps,” Keira says as she hops down from the billiard table, pulling her phone from her back pocket. “Anyway, I should probably get food into those two before they kill each other. Extra pepperoni for you, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Geralt watches her tapping away at her phone for a minute before reaching for his own, slipping it out of his back pocket. He’d intended to keep his phone off for the night, but Keira was right and the silence between Jaskier and himself went on long enough. He wouldn’t give the younger man an ultimatum, that was just childish, but he _would_ ask him if they could talk soon. He’d been waiting for Jaskier to reach out first after texting him, to give him time to think, breathe, and hopefully be willing to hear Geralt out after their disastrous morning at the diner. However, Keira’s point was sound; it shouldn’t be on Jaskier’s shoulders to be the only one to reach out, not when Geralt was the one who fucked up and had a little more than just grovelling to do. Relationships of any kind were a two-way street, and Geralt couldn't keep hesitating to take the first step.

Switching on the device, he watches it light up for a moment while taking another swig of beer. Though his brows quickly furrow when the device buzzes incessantly in his hand, looking down at it, he sees multiple missed calls from an unknown number and a few texts from the same number too.

“What the hell?” Geralt mumbles, setting his beer down on the billiard table to scroll through the numerous notifications, feeling something uncomfortable and cold settle low in his gut at one of the texts.

**_UNKNOWN - 10:35 PM: Please answer, I think your friend’s in trouble_ **

The text had been sent an hour ago. Geralt doesn’t hesitate to call the number back, though before he can actually tap on the number to call it, _it_ called him first. Geralt answers immediately.

“Who is-”

“ **Is this Geralt?** ” The voice of an unfamiliar man on the other end of the line asks, though before Geralt can so much as a hum in reply, the stranger barrels on. “ **I was asked to call you by someone named ‘Jaskier,’ I’m not going to lie to you, I think he’s in trouble. It was clear he didn’t want us to interfere and just asked that I call you, but I’ve been keeping an eye on him and…something isn’t right.** ”

The unsettling feeling in Geralt’s stomach goes cold and painfully rigid within the blink of an eye, “where are you?”

“ **We’re at the Kingfisher Inn, downtown near-** ”

“I know where it is, I’ll be there in ten min-” Geralt stops when he hears a woman shout in the background, loud enough to be heard over the music and catch the phone’s speakers, some muffled sounds like rumpling clothes and the stranger’s voice behind it all, calling out.

“ **Oi, mate, don't grab him like that-** ** _ **do** n’t_ you fucking put your hands on her- VES!**” The line goes dead after that, and Geralt’s already clutching his keys in his hands before he’s even registered moving.

“Geralt are you alright?” Keira’s voice almost sounds almost muted to Geralt, but he wrenches his head towards her, the phone in his hand still hovering in the air beside his ear. No, he wasn't alright because Jaskier was in danger and _needed his help_ , and he be _damned_ if he let the man down again.

“I have to go,” Geralt held on to his keys tighter, making for the door when a hand to the chest stops him.

“Whoa, Geralt, what’s going on? You look like you’re going into active combat, brother,” Eskel says, not really stopping Geralt from leaving, but Geralt looks at his brother and glances to Lambert behind him, both wearing expressions of concern.

“My friend, he’s in trouble and I think something’s just happened,” Geralt says by way of explanation, they didn’t need to know the details and he didn’t have time to share them anyway.

Geralt pushes past his brothers and makes for the door, jogging over to his car once he's past the front door, only realizing they’d followed him out when Keira, Lambert and Eskel were opening the doors to his car as well.

“You don’t-”

“Shut up and get in the car, Geralt,” Keira snaps out, sliding into the backseat with Lambert, while Eskel was already buckling up in the front.

Geralt doesn't argue but was silently grateful not only for the backup, but the support. Joining them in the car, Geralt all but rips out of Keira’s driveway, his car's engine a smooth purr as it races down the road like a bat out of hell. He knew he should probably slow down, but the man’s words and the commotion before the call cut off only had Geralt pressing further down on the gas pedal instead.

“So what’s the situation?” Eskel asks as Geralt weaves through the weekend traffic with ease, his voice familiar to the tone he’d use back in their military days. Geralt appreciated his brothers more than ever right then, always ready to have his back no matter the situation.

“Someone called me saying Jaskier was in trouble,” Geralt takes a sharp turn for the direction he knew the bar to be, slamming down on the car horn when an asshole thought taking a turn without signaling would be a good idea, but continues on without pause. “I’m assuming he gave my number to the man, which says enough about what might be going on. Pretty sure a fight started just as the call ended, they’re at Fisher’s.”

“Here’s to hoping Zoltan still keeps that bat behind the bar,” Lambert says from the back, Eskel chuckles softly while Geralt says nothing; his mind was far too caught up with what might happen during the time it takes for them to get there, and coming up with plans and _backup_ plans for whatever _does_ happen.

“I’ll call Shani, I think she works the floor on the weekends, see if she knows what’s up,” Keira says right after Lambert, and Geralt feels a little relieved when Keira greets their friend over the phone after a short moment. “Shani, is anything happening at the bar- you’re kidding… _fuck_ , are they still- okay, okay good, _keep_ them there for as long as you can- no, I know, we know one of them, his name’s Jaskier, please don’t let him go anywhere, we’re close. Okay, thanks, babe. See you soon.”

Geralt’s fists tighten around the wheel of his car, his foot pressing down just that little bit more and knows he’s toeing the line to getting a speeding ticket but can’t bring himself to care right then, “what’s happening?”

“A fight at the bar, some dick was trying to force someone to leave with him when some people stepped in and it’s turned into a bit of a barroom brawl-”

“Nothing new for Zoltan’s place,” Eskel mumbles, but Keira continues on over his comment.

“-and it’s still going on, but the cops are likely going to be on their way if they aren’t already. Shani said she’d try to keep Jaskier in the bar, but we should hurry.”

The perk of being friends the owner of a bar is parking in the staff area around back, which is exactly where Geralt tears into the moment they reach their destination. No one waits to exit the car the moment Geralt pulls the car’s handbreak, his family darting out the moment the vehicle stops and Geralt is right behind them. The four of them make for the bar’s back door when Geralt hears it, the others must too because everyone stills listening out for another sound. Geralt feels his hands trembling, ears sharp and body coiled, ready to strike; he hadn’t felt this antsy since his last tour overseas before the divorce.

“GET OFF HIM!” A woman’s voice yells from the alley between the bar and the bakery next door, it’s enough to send the four running towards the sound.

Geralt rounds the corner just in time to see a man throwing someone into the trunk of a car, while shoving a blonde woman off him with a brutal elbow-strike to her face. The blonde crashes to the ground and looks about ready to pounce on the man again when Geralt moves. Darting forward, Geralt yanks the man backwards towards him, throwing him to the floor in one fluid movement where he lands with a harsh, muffled thump on the wet stones. He looks over to the blonde whose attention has shifted to another man laying on the floor Geralt hadn’t noticed before, the man was clutching his side in clear pain. Geralt made to move to check on the stranger when a voice calls out to him. Geralt freezes at the all too familiar voice, sounding far more frightened than it ever had, and turns to see…who is in the trunk, trying to scramble out like a terrified animal-

“You came,” Jaskier says through a breathy laugh with a terrified, teary gaze. Geralt’s eyes catch on the bloody split above his brow, releasing a stream of red down his temple that stands out in a gruesome, stark contrast to his wide, pale eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes like the air had been knocked out of him, mind going a mile a second and notices more injuries on him, from his overall ruffled appearance to a bloody nose and split lip. “Are you-”

“GERALT!” Jaskier yells out, the momentary relief on his face turns to wide-eyed fear as his gaze catches on something behind him, and Geralt moves on instinct before he can think twice.

Whipping around, Geralt knows it's only because of years of training and learned instinct that he manages to dodge out of the way just in time to avoid a knife to the chest, but winces when the blade catches his bicep instead. Geralt reels back a fist to strike only for Lambert to lunge forward and wrap his arms around the barrel of the man’s chest, quickly shifting his hold to the wrist of the hand that clutches a switchblade. His brother pulls him further back, giving Eskel enough space to round the redhead and deliver a punishing blow to the jaw, repeating the attack until the blade clatters to the floor.

The duo don’t struggle much to contain the man after that, though he does put up a fight which is impressive with two people grappling him - especially when those two people are trained soldiers. Geralt thinks, for a quick moment, that things may not have gone as smoothly had he come alone. However, his brothers clearly have the situation handled. Looking over to where the other man and woman were, Geralt sees Keira and the blonde tending to the man on the floor. Geralt watches the situation for a moment longer, ensuring they don’t need his help, before turning back to face Jaskier who managed to get out of the trunk he’d been thrown into, standing on unsteady feet.

Geralt doesn’t hesitate to reach for him, helping prop the younger man up and holds on tightly when Jaskier clings to him, trembling worse than Geralt’s ever felt. It’s all over within minutes, but a sense of lancing fear rips through Geralt at the thought of what might have happened had they been only a few minutes late. Geralt wanted to ask Jaskier - ask _someone_ \- what the _hell_ had happened, but with Jaskier crying against his shoulder, barely able to breath through his sobs, Geralt keeps his questions to himself and silently holds the man. His questions could wait, because right now, Jaskier needed someone to comfort him and Geralt _would_ do right by him this time.

“I’ve got you, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers into Jaskier’s hair, arms wrapped tight around the brunet’s shaking shoulders, and Geralt’s heart breaks a little more at every sob and hiccup he feels and hears against his chest.

“You came for me,” Jaskier whispers just as the faint sounds of police sirens greet them, his trembling hands moving to wrap around Geralt’s shoulders, and the older man feels more than hears Jaskier’s words against the side of his neck, “thank you.”

“I’ll always come for you, Jask,” Geralt answers in a soft whisper, unable to let go of Jaskier even as paramedics and officers begin to swarm them, “always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> \- Violence (knife attack/physical fighting)  
> \- Attempted kidnapping
> 
> Hello everyone! Yay! Geralt checked his phone, and not a moment too soon!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it was initially longer but I decided to split it into two as the second-half would have felt a bit disjointed and rushed had I kept it in. However, it will deall with the aftermath of what happened in this chapter, and boy will it be a doozy, but hopefully one that pays off! Thank you again all SO much for your lovely comments and investment in this story and our boys! It means so much to me!! I hope to see y'all next chapter!! xxoxoo


	14. I’ll Be There (For You) Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Me? I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of what I saw, I'm scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you.”_  
>  ~ Frances "Baby" Houseman, _Dirty Dancing_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath...
> 
> PLEASE CHECK ENDNOTES FOR CHAPTER WARNINGS!

Geralt didn’t dare leave the police precinct, even after his interview was over. They’d asked him some basic questions and Geralt had answered them all as best he could, but the reality was Geralt _hadn’t known_ what the fuck was going on; Jaskier had asked him for help and he came, that was the long and short of it and after multiple questions, the cops knew it too.On the other hand, Geralt had learned more from the officers than they had from him; apparently, Olgierd Everec was a former client who had stalked Jaskier for the better part of the past year and had _fully_ intended to kidnap Jaskier to some remote fucking cabin to play ‘house’ with him. Had Roche and Ves not been there to stop him, Geralt very well would have never seen Jaskier again.

The man Geralt had seen lying in the alley - Roche - had been stabbed in the side by Olgierd while trying to get him away from Jaskier. He was taken to the hospital right after help arrived, his injury wasn’t fatal or life-threatening, but it wasn’t to be brushed aside either; the blonde woman - Vez - had gone with him after brief questioning at the scene. In all honesty, Geralt had only gotten that information because of Lambert and Eskel had stopped by the waiting room to update him on what they’d learned before returning home themselves. Though Geralt had known one thing for certain, if Roche and Ves hadn’t been there, Jaskier would have been long gone before Geralt had ever even _known_ what happened. He owed them but didn’t have the faintest clue as to how to repay them yet. However, thoughts of Ves, Roche, and his family fell into the background of his mind while one name - one _person -_ remained at the forefront: Jaskier.

As selfish as it felt to admit, all Geralt could think about was Jaskier. The younger man hadn’t spoken another word since thanking Geralt for answering his call to him; he’d been all but silent as paramedics swarmed them, taking him away to be looked over. Thankfully, Jaskier’s injuries were all superficial and would heal on their own in due time; as a result of that relieving information, the physical wounds were longer Geralt’s top concern, but the psychological ones very much were. Geralt’s had his own battles against his mind long after his physical wounds had scarred over, and he knew this wouldn’t be an easy process for Jaskier by any means. And though Geralt _wanted_ to be there for him through it, he knew it was ultimately Jaskier’s choice of whether or not he could be the one Jaskier leaned against while he healed.

Geralt wanted to scream, to break anything and everything within _sight,_ but mostly he wanted to go into the holding cells and snap Olgierd’s neck - preferably after beating the bastard bloody. Though despite that enraged itch under his skin, Geralt remained sat in the precinct waiting room, hunched over and glaring at the floor. While Geralt felt sick at the thought of what Jaskier had been in danger of, he was now heartbroken at the thought of what Jaskier would be _facing;_ because the only real question to Jaskier’s trauma was how would it manifest and how _bad_ it would be? Humans dealt with trauma differently but it _had_ to be dealt with, otherwise, it would not only fester and worsen but ingrain itself deeper into the very _soul_ of one’s being. Geralt had intimate experience with trying to ignore trauma, and those were days he never wanted to return to, nor ones he would ever wish on anyone let alone Jaskier.

He’d asked himself, repeatedly, if there was something he could have done to prevent all this from ever happening; he’d panicked in the station’s washroom over the thoughts of what _could_ have happened, but ultimately, Geralt knew all he _could_ do was help Jaskier through the aftermath of it all. Which was why he remained rooted in the precinct’s waiting room; if Jaskier wanted him gone, he’d leave without a fight, but he had to _make sure_ Jaskier was taken care of - even if not by him. Geralt feels his phone vibrate in his hand after what feels like an eternity and like he’d just stepped through the doors of the place, tilting his wrist so the device faced him, Geralt sees a text from Yen.

**_Yen - 3:48AM: Heard anything yet?_ **

Geralt wonders how Yen may have caught wind of what happened, but despite his belief in her omnipotence, he’s pretty sure Keira must have called her at some point so he doesn’t bother with preamble.

 **_You - 3:49AM: nothing yet. I’ll update you when I can._ ** ****

**_Yen - 3:49AM: You’d better. Lmk if you need anything, love you._ ** ****

**_You - 3:50AM: thank u. love u too._ **

Geralt exists out of his chat with Yen, about to text Eskel to make check-in with his brother to thank him for helping tonight and make sure they were okay when he hears it.

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice all but whispers the name sounding almost…surprised, his voice soft enough to almost be lost over the din of the police station, but Geralt hears it all the same and is up on his feet within seconds.

“Jaskier,” the name sounds like it’s almost punched out of him, desperate and breathless but Geralt can’t bring himself to care as he moves towards the younger man intending to hold him but- “I-“ _what are you doing, you utter fuckwit?!_

Geralt stops in his tracks, just short of Jaskier who stares at him with his arms wrapped around himself like he was trying to hold himself together. Geralt could still see the subtle trembling of his while Jaskier stared at him with wide and so very blue eyes, his battered face looking so much worse under the precinct’s florescent lights. He felt the rage in his belly reignite but held himself steady. It was just as well his words stopped with him; he didn’t know what to say, what would and _wouldn’t_ be okay to do and-

“Geralt?” It was Jaskier that took a step closer to him, arms still firmly wrapped around himself but the look in his eyes had gone from surprised to almost…sad and _dazed_ , in those few short moments Geralt lost himself in doubt but it was that look that spurred Geralt on.

“I wanted to make sure you were taken care of before I left,” Geralt was never really the type to get nervous, but right then he understood why people had nervous ticks, “not- not that you can’t take care of yourself, but I really don’t think you should be alone right now. Could I…take you somewhere? To someone? Or have anyone you need me to call-”

“I don’t want anyone,” Jaskier sighs, and though his body slumps where he stands, the trembling hasn’t subsided - if anything Geralt feels like it had gotten worse. “I just…Geralt, take me home, please?”

Geralt nods, already reaching for his keys, “of course, Jask, there’s a petrol station by your house if-“

“No!” The younger man doesn’t shout the word, but it comes out quick, sharp and sounding almost _scared._ Jaskier even darts forward, hand clutching at the front of Geralt’s wrinkled shirt with a manic sort of desperation in his eyes. Geralt stops speaking immediately. “Just- please, I just…I don’t want to go home, anywhere but there, please, Geralt.”

Geralt nods, gently resting a hand over Jaskier’s, “I have a spare room in my house if that’s okay? Yen has one at her place, too, if you’d prefer-”

“I want to stay with you,” Jaskier sighs, eyes fixed on where Geralt’s hand rests atop his own, “I...I know we still have to talk but- I just...if it’s okay with you, I want to stay with you. I feel safe with you, Geralt.”

Something in Geralt’s chest swells and flutters at Jaskier’s admission, and in any other situation he may have smiled at the confession but as it were, Geralt simply nods, “okay then, let's get you home.”

Jaskier leans heavily against Geralt’s side as they leave the police station, one arm remains wrapped around himself while the other clutches onto Geralt’s shirt as though Geralt might wander away if he doesn’t hold on. Geralt’s own left arm is wrapped securely around Jaskier’s waist, guiding the younger man through the halls and towards his car. Jaskier doesn’t speak and Geralt doesn’t force him to, he’d been through enough tonight and Geralt didn’t doubt that he’d likely just want to pass out for several hours to come.

“Careful,” Geralt gently warns as he opens the passenger side door for Jaskier to take a seat in his car, guiding the man into the vehicle until Jaskier deemed himself situated enough to let go of Geralt’s shirt.

Carefully closing the car door Geralt quickly makes his way to the other side, his key already in the ignition when he realizes Jaskier hadn’t buckled himself in, hadn’t even moved or blinked really.

“Jaskier?” Geralt calls out tentatively, something was wrong more so than it had been in the station. Jaskier’s eyes are glazed over, his body all but limp in the seat as though he were slowly being swallowed up by it; he looked so small, right then, and Geralt’s heart _ached_ at the sight of the man who was usually so much larger than life looking so… _lost_ in his car.

“I think…I think I’m dropping, Geralt, it's the only way I can describe it,” Jaskier whispers, turning to look at him with sad, pale eyes that hint at the beginnings of panic, the glazed look coming to life in the worst of ways as tears rim and threaten to spill from them. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, brokenly and reaches out to touch Geralt’s forearm only to stop and jerk his hand away, his gaze falling to his lap just as his tears begin to spill over. “I…I’m so sorry I don’t know why I- Geralt I didn’t mean for any of this to _happen,_ I _swear_ to you. I should have _known_ better, I- I never asked for any of this-”

“Hey, hey, hey, Jask, _Jaskier_ look at me,” Geralt fights to keep his voice gentle and calm, beating away the rage he feels welling up inside him and egging him on to go back into the police station and find Olgierd. Jaskier does look to Geralt, his eyes far too akin to a lost child’s for Geralt’s heart to bear without seizing painfully in his chest, but he doesn't dare look away.

“No one deserves anything like this to happen to them, Jask, he was a selfish and violent madman, and _none_ of this was your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for. _Nothing,_ " Geralt's hand itches to reach out, to give Jaskier some sort of comfort but felt too wary about where the man's limits may lay, especially now. "You’ll be okay, Jask, I’ll be there for your through whatever comes next, including this…we prepared for something like this, remember? I just…I need you to trust me, Jaskier, and I promise we’ll get through this.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt with genuine fear in his eyes, but also the beginnings of a sparking hope. The air between them stills with a subtle tension Geralt cannot name, it isn’t a… _bad_ sort of tension per se,but more so one of the things left unsaid. There were words hanging between them that needed to be spoken, but neither man was able to grasp and verbalize them. Geralt tried, but words escaped him on the best of days and right now he felt like the wrong one would set off a minefield, and Jaskier didn’t need his heavy-handed stupidity on top of everything-

Geralt feels the press of Jaskier’s lips against his own like a lightning strike, there and gone within the blink of an eye, but leaving behind scorched ground as proof of its touch. Geralt blinks and is surprised Jaskier was able to move so fast when the man looked more akin to a rag doll seconds ago, but now he was inches away, close enough Geralt could see the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. Jaskier looked so unsure like Geralt would have lashed out as being kissed by the person of his affections; more than anything, Jaskier looked like a person in dire need of reassurance. So Geralt reaches out, slowly so Jaskier can track his movements and back away if Geralt’s actions aren’t to his liking, but when he doesn’t Geralt cups his cheek. The skin was soft and warm in his palm, a relief for Geralt to discover when Jaskier looked so pale that Geralt thought he’d be cold to the touch. Jaskier leans into the older man’s hand and Geralt can’t help the small smile that ghosts his lips, it felt like millennia since he’d been able to touch Jaskier like this; no pretense, no expectation for something more, but just a warm, tangible reassurance of the other person’s presence.

“I trust you, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers into the scant space between them, and Geralt feels something - doubt, maybe? - wither away within him, leaving him more confident in his ability to do this - to do _right_ by Jaskier.

Jaskier sits back in his seat, allowing Geralt to lean over and pull the seat belt securely over Jaskier’s torso before driving them to his home. The drive is quiet, but this time the air between them is content. Jaskier shivers in the beginnings of what Geralt assumes is him dropping, and places a hand on his thigh that Jaskier holds onto for the remainder of the ride. It’s late enough in the night that they don’t hit any traffic and make it to Geralt’s faster than expected. Jaskier had dozed off early on in their journey back, and Geralt hated to disturb him when the man was likely exhausted after everything. So Geralt tries his best to move about silently, switching off the car and exiting it to round over to Jaskier’s side, he slowly undoes the seat belt and carefully slips his arms under Jaskier’s knees and shoulders. It was no surprise lifting Jaskier was rather easy, the man was lean, soft muscle, but some protective hindbrain part of Geralt tells him he needs to make sure Jaskier eats more - at least, eats more than just sweets.

Jaskier mewls softly at being shifted around, but unconsciously wraps his arms around Geralt’s neck and buries his face into the crook of it, snuffling in his sleep like a particularly lazy cat. Geralt can’t help but find the action adorable and amusing in equal measure. Geralt’s keys are still in-hand, and he’s had enough practice carrying a limp Ciri to bed over the years that maneuvering the keys into the front door’s lock isn’t too difficult. Though Jaskier is taller than his daughter, and Geralt winces when he doesn’t account for the height difference, accidentally bumping Jaskier’s feet against the door’s side as he steps into the house.

“Wha-?” The brunet mumbles against Geralt’s throat, body curling a bit more in Geralt’s arms.

“Sorry, love,” Geralt whispers back, hoping he hadn’t disturbed Jaskier too much. However, just as the door closes behind them he feels Jaskier’s limp body go frigid, tensing like a tight coil and Geralt _knew_ was what about to happen before it did, but even then didn’t have time to brace for it.

“GET OFF ME!” Jaskier screeches thrashing out of Geralt’s arms, landing a rather hard blow to the side of Geralt’s face, but the older man couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the sharp ache when he heard Jaskier land - rather painfully - onto the floor with an echoing _thud._

Geralt immediately lunges for the closest light switch, he knew the sudden shift from dark to light would be jarring, but Jaskier needed to know he was with _him_ and not Olgierd. The sudden brightness even made Geralt wince, but the frantic scuffling on the floor stilled as light flooded Geralt’s front room. Jaskier had managed to make it a few feet back, scrambling on his back with his hands and feet. He stared up at Geralt in silent surprise for a few moments before something clicked into place behind his wide, owlish eyes. Tears sprung up and spilled over before Geralt could speak. Jaskier curled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest with ragged, wet breaths.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry, Geralt I’m _so sorry_ I didn’t mean to- I thought- FUCK! I’m so sorry I fucking _hit you_ I-” Jaskier’s rasped, the panicked rush of words cut off as he began to hyperventilate, nails digging into his arms almost viciously and Geralt moves before he could think.

“Breathe, Jaskier, it’s okay, just breathe,” Geralt soothes as he gently takes Jaskier’s hands into his own, hoping to keep Jaskier from breaking the skin where he’d already dug purple crescents into his arms.

“I’m so fucking stupid, Geralt, how could- _why_ do you _care_ about me? He almost had me and- fuck he- Olgierd said… _fuck!_ I’m sorry I- _Geralt-_ ” Jaskier uncurls from his legs and all but scrambles over to Geralt, his breathing was still erratic and the trembling returned tenfold. Geralt felt like a damned bastard for not thinking to open the lights sooner. He _knew_ Olgierd had planned to kidnap Jaskier to some remote shithole, what had he been _thinking_ bringing him into a dark house?

“I’m sorry, Jaskier, I should have opened the lights sooner,” Geralt whispers, arms tightening around the man slightly where he clings onto Geralt's front, a heartbreaking and jarring juxtaposition to the last time they’d been in this very same position after a scene that had left them both breathless in the best of ways.

“You’re safe, Jask, I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise,” Geralt swears, not only to Jaskier but to himself that his words will hold true. “You’re in my house, with me, you can leave any time you like and you’re _safe_. He’s gone, and he won’t ever come back, I won’t _let_ him.”

Jaskier’s breathing slowly calms, though to Geralt it feels like years until his ragged, panicked breaths finally ease into sniffles and sighs. He doesn’t let go of Geralt’s shirt, still clutching on tightly, but his trembling finally subsides as Geralt continues to rub soothing circles on his back. He speaks to Jaskier through the panic after making his promise, about mundane things and funny little stories he’s lived through, nothing serious nor pointed, just speaking for the sake of filling the silence and giving Jaskier’s brain something else to focus on. It was a trick Triss had taut him when Yen had a panic attack and Geralt was at a loss for what to do, she said the distraction helped take away from the overthinking and as always, Triss was right.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers long after Geralt’s legs have gone numb but didn’t dare move, not wanting to jostle Jaskier any further. Geralt looks down at the younger man who buries his face into Geralt’s chest, his hold on Geralt’s shirt tightening slightly as he speaks, “I thought…I thought he’d take me, that you wouldn’t get to me in time. He’d said he was the only person to truly ever love me and…it scared me because he _believed_ it, and I- I thought he was right and that terrified me, but he was _wrong._ I’m sorry I hurt you…I’m _so_ sorry, Geralt, for everything.”

There was so much to unpack there, _so_ much Geralt felt like he was projecting onto but the bits at the end put his own worries at ease; Jaskier hadn’t doubted Geralt would come, just that he wouldn’t come _in time._ Jaskier believed Geralt would save him, and hadn’t said he’d doubted that Geralt would. However, something cold and heavy still sat uncomfortably in Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s admission that be believed Olgierd loved him, that Olgierd was the only person who would ever _truly_ love him. Jaskier couldn’t have really believed that, could he? But Jaskier was vulnerable and likely wouldn’t lie in his current state, and he knew better himself than to say the words now of all times but he couldn’t just _let_ Jaskier go on believing only someone like _Olgierd_ could love him - and what Olgierd felt for Jaskier was _not_ love, it was a twisted obsession.

“Jaskier, look at me…please,” Geralt’s voice comes out soft, pleading and almost like a whisper. He knew better, but he wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- continue holding Jaskier pretending everything would be okay while he believed such a horrible thing. Even if he’d said he knew that belief was wrong, the fact that he _had_ believed it at all was bad enough.

Jaskier hesitates, the silence stretching out between them for several minutes before blue eyes meet Geralt’s, they looked so scared, so _vulnerable_ and Geralt’s heart broke a little more at the sight. He knew he had to do this, to _say_ the words he’d been keeping so close to his chest for what felt like forever. It didn’t matter if Jaskier didn’t feel the same, that wasn’t the point of this, the point was that he would _know_.

“Jaskier, what that bastard felt for you wasn’t love,” Geralt’s words come out a little hoarse, but thankfully remain steady, “and I know that for a fact because when you love someone, you want the best for them…you want to protect them and would move heaven and earth to do so…”

Jaskier stares at Geralt, his gaze wide but unreadable, but maybe it was for the best Geralt couldn’t decipher what laid within them, “Geralt? What-”

“I’ve hurt you, Jaskier, and I will spend the rest of my life regretting what I’ve done but will do my best to do better by you from now on because Jaskier…I love you,” his stare is too much right then, and Geralt is forced to look away but holds Jaskier closer, tighter as he continues. “Please, Jask, _never_ believe you aren’t worthy of love, and…and maybe one day you’ll find someone lucky enough to give your love to, but _know_ you have mine, okay?”

The words almost felt torn from Geralt, and for a moment he was terrified he’d messed up by speaking them, that Jaskier would lash out all over again. The relief he felt wash over him when Jaskier held him tighter, clinging to him left Geralt feeling almost breathless. He didn’t speak, didn’t respond and Geralt didn’t honestly want him to, that wasn’t the reason for his confession; perhaps in fairytales, this would be the moment they both declared their love for each other, but reality was far more gruesome, heartbreaking and bleak. The faults of reality no longer surprised Geralt, but if his reality included Jaskier, then maybe the faults would be worth it.

"Okay," Jaskier whispers back, holding onto Geralt for a few more moments who holds him tightly in his arms. After a few moments, a long yawn forces its way out of Jaskier and Geralt chuckles softly.

"Feeling okay? Or are you still hazy?" Geralt asks, fully intending to stay put if Jaskier wasn't ready to move just yet.

"Better, thank you...tired, but I think walking may be out of the question," Jaskier surmises, looking a bit sheepish at Geralt; his face was worn, made worse by the bruising and his small smile didn't _quite_ reach his eyes, but it was lightyears better than he'd looked in the police station.

"Let's get you to bed then." Geralt carefully stands, shaking feeling back into his legs before reaching down to carry Jaskier once more. Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt's neck, face buried into his crook and felt more relaxed, somehow, than he had when he'd been asleep. As Geralt carries him up the stairs and to the spare bedroom, he didn’t think he _wanted_ a fairytale ending. Not when Jaskier held onto him just because he knew he could and looked at him with such _trust_ as Geralt laid the younger man down on the guest bed.

“Did you mean that?” Jaskier asks as Geralt switches on the bedside lamp to its lowest setting, voice whisper-soft in the dimly lit room.

“Yes, Jask,” Geralt answers without hesitation, pulling the comforter higher over the lax brunet, “I love you.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt for a moment, eyes finally half-lidded and expression sleep-soft. Geralt knew his trauma was far from over, knew there would be so many bumps and dips in the road ahead, but for now, he was thankful Jaskier felt safe enough to rest. However, just as Geralt turned to leave, Jaskier’s hand closes around his wrist. His grip was weak and Geralt knew it was to give him the chance to pull away if he so decided, but Jaskier should have known by now that Geralt would never leave him unless asked.

“Stay?” Jaskier asks, looking over to the empty half of the guest room mattress, and back at Geralt with a tentative hopefulness.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks but does remove his shoes, though he stays put until Jaskier nods, pulling the comforter down to make way for Geralt to lay beside him.

Geralt moves over to the other side of the bed, sliding in and re-tucking Jaskier into the blankets before pulling them over his own shoulders. They both lay on their backs a few inches apart, and while Geralt misses holding Jaskier, he doesn’t try to close the space between them; Jaskier sets the pace between how the go forward, and Geralt was more than happy to follow his lead. It’s just as Geralt’s eyes begin to close that he feels Jaskier’s hand shift under the blanket, taking Geralt’s into his in a sure grip. He gives the younger man’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and smiles softly when he hears Jaskier sigh. Geralt glances over to Jaskier after a few moments, taking in the soft lines of his face, the way his hair falls into his eyes while long, dark lashes fan out over the top of his high cheeks. He looked far more at peace in his sleep now, and the sight of it loosened a tightness in Geralt's chest, despite the bruises still there. Geralt didn’t need some fantastical fairytale, not when he had this because sometimes, reality was better.

“Good night, Jaskier,” Geralt whispers, thumb brushing over the back of Jaskier’s hand as he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> \- Subdropping  
> \- Trauma aftermath  
> \- Violent outbursts (due to trauma)  
> \- Anxiety attack  
> \- Slight self-harm (during anxiety attack)
> 
> Hey everyone!  
> I apologize for the tardiness of this chapter, I kept going back and forth with this chapter and with everything that had been going on over the past couple of days didn't have proper time to sit down and sort through it. But I've finally managed to reach a version of it I was happy with, and I hope you were too!  
> Writing this chapter has made me realize we may not be as close to the end as I thought. I realized there are still some aspects of the aftermath, and after the aftermath that I wanted to explore before putting this story to bed, so I hope you'll bear with me and that I'll see you next chapter!! xxoxoo


	15. Reclaiming the Mislaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My pain has always deserved a voice and I will not deny it that, but I won't devote my life to it either.”_  
>  ~ Trista Mateer, _Aphrodite Made Me Do It_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier will not allow Olgierd's actions to define him, and Geralt follows his lead...
> 
> PLEASE CHECK ENDNOTES FOR CHAPTER WARNINGS!

He could feel strong hands on him, gripping painfully as the barroom swirled around him in a mesh of bright, dizzying colours. Jaskier’s arm was tightly gripped and bent awkwardly up the middle of his back, and it felt like it was about to snap. Olgierd’s voice was in his ear, his sweltering breath hot on the right side of his neck as he spoke. Jaskier couldn’t make out the words but he _knew_ the man was promising pain; that Jaskier would ‘repent’ for spitting in the face of his kindness. He hadn’t listened and tried making a scene, he doesn’t remember why but just that he had to get _away_ …Olgierd said he wouldn’t be able to see the scenery on the way to their ‘their new home.’

“Jaskier?”

He looks around for the voice, it was so… _familiar,_ and somehow promised solace from this hell. He tried struggling away from Olgierd to find it, to seek it out and _run to it._ But Olgierd’s grip was too tight, too _strong_ for Jaskier to break away from. Something wasn’t right, there had been…people, yes, _people_ that tried to stop Olgierd from taking him away from the minimal safety of the barroom, but no one was there to stop him this time. Instead, people just…stared, just _watched_ as Olgierd hauled him away. He cries out to them, _begging_ for help but no one does. They just stare.

“ _Jaskier.”_

He feels panic rising in his throat, his struggles growing more frantic and pained as his arm aches, his wrists both hurting despite Olgierd not gripping them. He feels trapped, _is_ trapped. He's outside, in a dark alleyway and is pushed forward towards the back of a car where he sees a yawning chasm. It’s pitch black, and strikes a fear in him so visceral he tries to scream but no sound comes forth; he’s staring into the mouth of a monster and-

“ _JASKIER!”_

Jaskier jolts awake, arms and legs flailing because he can finally _move._ His throat feels raw like he’d been screaming but despite the raw-dryness, he gulps heaving, ragged bouts of air into his burning lungs. His eyes sting and his hands tremble. Everything around him seems hazy- no, _blurred_ and clears momentarily when he blinks; he’s crying. His brain feels like it’s overwhelmed, trying to piece everything together while simultaneously frozen at a complete standstill. It’s disconcerting, the juxtaposition of so many opposing feelings that all result in a panic trying to identify them. Nothing is familiar around him, he isn’t home or at the home of someone he knows and-

“Jaskier, it’s me,” it’s the voice from his dream, the voice that promised safety, “I brought you to my house last night, you didn’t want to go home. You asked me to stay with you. You were having a nightmare…I tried waking you but you started thrashing and I had to hold you down, to keep you from hurting yourself, I didn’t know what else to do…I’m sorry.”

Jaskier finally turns his head to look at Geralt, to _see_ him and make sure that this was real and not some twisted respite of his nightmare. The older man was sat up, body twisted towards Jaskier with a look torn between sadness and worry, but something - something he hadn’t even _known_ was there - quieted in his chest when he didn’t see a trace of pity. Geralt was saddened that he couldn’t protect Jaskier from his own dreams, was worried by what they could cause, but…Geralt _didn’t_ pity him for his plight. _He’s probably had enough pity himself,_ Jaskier thinks as he moves to sit up. His clothes feel tacky on his skin, and seeing that its last night’s outfit just makes him feel dirtier, even more grimy and filthy. He knew, logically, that he was in no state to change and he couldn’t have asked Geralt to do it either, but a part of him wishes Geralt had done it anyway. However, he couldn’t move- _leave_ just yet.

Jaskier wiped at his cheeks, surprised by how warm they felt - almost hot to the touch - but was somehow less surprised and more _annoyed_ by the fact his fingers came away wet. He’d been screaming and crying in his sleep, and somehow that just made the fright, the _despair_ he felt in his rattling chest seep into anger. He felt wild right then, like an animal backed into a corner and lashing out to regain some sense of control over the uncontrollable. He couldn’t control his subconscious, but he _could_ control his body. Jaskier doesn’t think twice about lunging at Geralt, pinning the man down to the bed beneath him. His legs straddle over Geralt’s narrow hips and his trembling hands pin the man’s wrists to the mattress. He knew Geralt could easily fight back, the man was larger and stronger than him and could throw Jaskier off without breaking a sweat, but Geralt _doesn’t_ struggle and Jaskier can’t understand why that both exhilarates and angers him further in equal measure.

The younger brunet stares down at Geralt, watching his face for any traces of annoyance, hesitation or shock, but finds none; something in him told Jaskier he could do whatever he wanted, right then, and Geralt wouldn’t tell him no. That thought, that _power_ almost scares Jaskier, almost has him scrambling away from Geralt but he remains atop the man, his grip tightening instead of releasing. The look in Geralt’s eyes was a calm _trust;_ Geralt trusted Jaskier, even now, after everything he’d dragged the father into when he could- no, _should_ have cut and run long before any of this.

Geralt trusted Jaskier to take what he needed, to _do_ what he needed and wouldn’t fight because he _knew_ he had a choice in all this and Geralt’s choice was clear; he was choosing Jaskier. _I love you,_ the reverence of Geralt’s confession the previous night both rattles and settles something in Jaskier. Geralt chose him, was _still_ choosing him by remaining calm and pliant beneath Jaskier. The thought made Jaskier want to cry; Olgierd hadn’t given Jaskier a choice, but Geralt did - Geralt _always_ did. Despite Geralt’s confession the previous night, Jaskier still believed Geralt would want him gone once his senses returned as the night’s adrenaline wore-off come morning; he believed Geralt would see him as damaged goods, as far too much trouble to be worth it, and Jaskier wouldn’t even blame him. Jaskier was supposed to be Geralt’s hired fuck, _how the hell did we end up like this?_ he can’t help but think, almost feeling amused by the insanity that lead them here, to this moment.

“I don’t regret it,” the words come forth before Jaskier can really think about them, but he finds he means them all the same. Geralt had to understand, though, “I knew the risks of a job like this, and I won’t let this- _that bastard_ scare me away from it.”

“Good,” the reply is sincere and somehow not what Jaskier expects, it throws him a little, to be honest. He’d expected Geralt to warn him away from it, to maybe even ask him _stop_ or give Jaskier ultimatum, but then again, when has Geralt ever been predictable? “You love what you do, Jaskier, and someone like him shouldn’t stop you from doing what you love.”

Jaskier swallows something down at Geralt’s words, “even…even after what you said, you still really believe that?”

Geralt doesn’t look away, but his gaze shifts into something almost fragile, “even then. You don’t control those you love, Jaskier, and I’d never try to control you.”

Jaskier almost laughs at that, because this all began with Geralt’s _want_ for control, but even as he thought it he knew he was wrong; the control Geralt wanted relied on mutual trust, not obsessive possession. To be frank, Jaskier’s escorting wasn’t honestly a long-term plan but more of a ‘side-hustle,’ as Priscilla called it. Something to help him get by until his writing - hopefully - became a full-time career. But Geralt didn’t know that; for all Geralt _knew_ Jaskier was a full-time escort who wrote little stories on the side. Many in the sex work profession did it, so why would Jaskier be any different? That wasn’t the point, though. The _point_ was Jaskier needed to know where Geralt stood, after his confession; would he want Jaskier to change? Of course, Geralt didn’t, because _Geralt_ was _perfect. Geralt_ accepted Jaskier _as he was,_ fuck ups and all and…why? _Why_ did he just accept him? ‘Love’ was too simple an answer; ‘love’ came with terms and conditions, fine print that many failed to read…and Jaskier was scared he’d done just that.

“Why?” The question is almost pulled from him, sounding breathless and _lost;_ why couldn’t Geralt just be simple to read, like so many others were? “This wasn’t the first time Olgierd hurt me, he wasn’t even the only one, just the worst. _How_ can you be okay with that?!”

“I’m not,” Geralt answers without hesitation, his hands curling into loose fists as he speaks, but makes no move to break away from Jaskier’s grip. “I’m _not_ okay with people hurting you, Jaskier, but I trust you to be safe. You’re clever, Jaskier, and yes maybe bastards will use your trust against you but that’s on _them, not_ you. Every job has its dangers, hell _my_ job had me dodging IEDs most days and ducking out the way of live bullets on others. I won’t degrade you for your chosen profession, and I’m sorry Jaskier but you can’t _goad_ me into doing it, either. I respect you, Jask. I have before last night and I always _will._ I trust you to take care of yourself, and…I’ll be there for you if you’ll have me.”

It’s the truth. Jaskier can _see_ that Geralt _means every word_ of what he says and yet…it’s not enough. _Why_ can’t it just be enough? It’s everything he’s always _wanted_ to hear but never has, not even from his closest friends. The man he _loves_ is saying _every right thing,_ and it’s _still not enough._ Jaskier feels something cold and cruel snare in his chest, tastes the venom of it like bile pouring forth from the back of his throat. And maybe it’s because he’s scared, or maybe his insecurities need to press _all_ the pressure points because no one can say all this and _truly_ mean it. Especially not Geralt, who was a fantastic father and a better man - possibly the best human Jaskier has ever met. Geralt couldn’t say these things to him and _mean them_ when he could _still feel Olgierd’s hands on him._ Jaskier’s grip on Geralt tightens, it must hurt even if only a little but Geralt remains just as pliant, his breathing still calm while Jaskier’s is just as erratic as his hummingbird heart.

“Because you act perfect and claim to love me, right?” the words were meant to hurt, meant to take Geralt’s words and throw them back in his face; Jaskier’s vindication as hurt flashes behind Geralt hazel-gold eyes is fiercely felt but short-lived. He feels his throat closing while his eyes burn just as quickly at the site, “and what if I don’t love you? What then?”

“Nothing changes,” the words are said without hesitation, but they’re quiet, coated in a film of sadness Jaskier knows Geralt tries to hide, if only for a moment before giving up.

He sees something fall away behind Geralt’s eyes, the older man laying himself bare under Jaskier in a way the brunet had never seen before; for the first time, Geralt is vulnerable. It feels intimate in a way they’d never been, and Jaskier hates that this moment was brought forth because of his cruel insecurities inflicting themselves on a person who didn’t deserve a shred of it. Geralt’s softly fractured expression blurs beneath Jaskier, only clearing to haze again as the hot tears drop onto Geralt’s cheek. Jaskier’s hold on his wrists finally loosen as he lowers himself down onto his forearms, now chest-to-chest with Geralt’s broader frame and buries his face in the crook of the man’s neck as he cries. The sobs come, unbidden, and only tear themselves from him harder, more viciously when he feels Geralt’s arms move to hold him.

Jaskier wants nothing more than to say those three words, right then. He’d give up everything if it meant Geralt knew how he truly felt about him. But he _couldn’t_ say them, not now. Geralt wouldn’t believe him even if he did. Jaskier had been attacked by a stalker and Geralt was being kind, far _too_ kind and…who would rightly believe the love confession of a person in the throes of trauma? No one, and certainly not someone as cautious about Jaskier’s wellbeing as Geralt. He’d just think Jaskier was scared of being alone, and he wouldn’t be wrong; the _thought_ of dealing with all this alone _terrified_ Jaskier, and while _he_ knew his love for Geralt predated the previous night, Geralt didn’t. Jaskier wanted to scream at the irony of it all. He’d been so _ready_ to open his heart to Geralt at the diner, only to close those doors and _run_ instead of staying to face what he’d believed was the looming promise of rejection and a broken heart. But now? _Now_ he knew Geralt loved him, unconditionally, and he _couldn’t tell him._

“Say it again,” Jaskier says through a sharp exhale, clutching tighter onto Geralt, “please, Geralt, say it-”

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt replies, his voice soft but its the firm conviction in those words that both mends and breaks Jaskier’s heart as he hears it, “and nothing will change that.”

 _I love you, Geralt,_ Jaskier wishes he could say, turning to press his face to the side of Geralt’s neck, _I love you so much it hurts, everything in me burns with it but I don’t care that it hurts because I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever thought possible for one human to love another. I love you, Iloveyou, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-_

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier croaks out moments later, staring off into the distance while Geralt gently strokes his back. He feels the anger and manic panic fall away in the silence of the room. The hand still holding the front of Geralt’s shirt slowly flattens, feeling the older man’s steady heartbeat beneath his palm, and feels his own begin to fall in sync with it.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Jaskier,” Geralt hums, the other arm around Jaskier’s waist tightens just slightly, and it could have easily been looked over but the simplicity of it gives Jaskier a strange kind of hope. “But I would like to help if you’ll let me.”

Jaskier hums, of course, Geralt would still want to help him, even after the horrid things he’d said, “I want your help, Geralt.”

There’s a momentary pause, one Jaskier recognizes as Geralt trying to gather his words before speaking them, “after touring I wasn’t in a great…'state’ so to speak. You said I was ‘perfect,’ but Jaskier, I’m far from it. My body’s fucked from my time in the army, and I still have nightmares…in the winter nearly every part of me, every scar and healed-over broken bone, _aches_ and that just makes the nightmares worse. Sudden loud noises still freak me out, if I’m honest. But…I’m still working through it, it fucking sucks, Jask, but I’m _not_ giving up.”

Jaskier turns his head and watches Geralt for a moment, surprised. He hadn’t known, and maybe it wasn’t his place to before, but now Geralt was peeling back another layer of himself for Jaskier to see and…it both saddened and warmed the blistering ache in his chest; Geralt wouldn’t understand how Jaskier felt, not truly, but he _did_ understand the cruelty of one's own mind after the physical was over. He felt horrible for admitting it, but the thought that he wasn’t alone comforted him, maybe even embolden him, a little. Geralt was a strong man in every way that counted, and maybe - just _maybe -_ he’d share some of that strength with Jaskier.

“I was on meds, for a while, but they just made things worse…they weren’t for me, I guess. Triss told me I should go see someone, and at first, I waved it off thinking I could handle it all on my own, y’know?” His voice trembles right then, ever so slightly, “I was fucking wrong. I-…I’d been driving Ciri back to Yen’s after a weekend at my dad’s, it’s kind of funny, how soft he goes around her. Someone’s tire beside us blew out and I just…I _froze,_ I nearly crashed the fucking car with my _daughter_ in the backseat and-”

Jaskier sits up a little when Geralt’s voice trembles and breaks, and for the first time sees what anguish looks like on the man’s features; it’s a fucking shattering site. Geralt’s jaw is tense, his brows knitted together, and Jaskier almost wants to tell him he doesn’t have to go on when Geralt speaks. His eyes remain closed.

“I almost got Ciri killed, Jask,” his hands have shifted to Jaskier’s thighs, their grip on him flexing and trembling as he tries to speak, “I thought I had it under control, but I didn’t- it was _killing_ me and…fuck, I’m sorry I didn’t mean-”

Jaskier cups Geralt’s face, stroking a thumb over his strong cheekbone when the man leans into his touch and repeats the words Geralt had said to him so many times already, “you have nothing to apologize for, Geralt.”

Geralt blinks his eyes open, staring up at Jaskier with the sad panic of a lost child, “I don’t know what you’re feeling…or what you’ve been through, but _please_ don’t bury it because I-…I don’t want to lose you under it, Jaskier.”

Jaskier knew he had a long, scary road ahead, and knew his dreams were just the tip of the iceberg - he’d had nightmares for _months_ after Olgierd sent him to the hospital - but it felt more doable, maybe even a little _less_ scary knowing he wasn’t alone this time. That this time, he had someone who understood, and even if they didn’t, they were willing to listen.

“You won’t, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, leaning down he slides the hand over Geralt’s heart up to cup the side of the man’s neck and presses a soft kiss to the older man’s lips.

Jaskier knew he couldn’t tell Geralt he loved him, not yet. There was still a long road ahead of him before he could come close to the words without Geralt believing they were false or forced, but he could show him, in the meantime, how he felt. Jaskier's chaste kiss grew a little more sure, delving just a little deeper as his tongue played at the seam of Geralt’s lips. Geralt’s hands on his thighs were gentle, not gripping but lightly holding and Jaskier knew he if pulled away or asked him to stop, Geralt would without question.

“Are you sure?” Geralt asks his words a breathless whisper against Jaskier’s lips.

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, his words unwavering adding as he nuzzles his nose against Geralt’s, “and you won’t ever lose me, Geralt. Ever.” It’s not the three words he’s been longing to say, but for now, it was close enough to the truth - close enough to feel the slight tension in Geralt’s body leave him.

Jaskier tilts his head to recapture Geralt’s mouth, this time their kiss was more heated, their touches more sure and firm as they held onto each other and explored. Jaskier didn’t want to go further, and he suspected neither did Geralt; this wasn’t sexual, this was reassurance. A reminder they were both together again, their steps slowly falling into sync with one another, and that they were _safe_ in the arms of each other. Jaskier pressed his overwhelming feelings for the man under him into every kiss, every soft caress and whispered breath. Geralt kissed him back with just as much passion, his hands skirting over his thighs, hips and flanks, over his shoulders, chest and arms and back again. Their kisses went from lazy to frantic and back, their touches doing the same; maybe it was disbelief they were finally here or relief that they had _managed_ to reach this point, but either way, Jaskier never wanted to stop touching Geralt.

Jaskier always believed love had its own terms and conditions, but as Geralt laid pliant beneath him, following Jaskier lead unquestioningly because he _trusted_ him… _loved_ him, he knew that was a lie. Or maybe it was the truth for other people, but not for him and Geralt.

“Say it again,” Jaskier softly pants against Geralt’s lips, their noses brushing but his eyes part just enough to take in the soft expression of the man under him.

He feels Geralt’s hands gently squeeze where they rest on his bicep and hip, “I love you, Jaskier,” and Jaskier surges forward to kiss him again.

Geralt loved him, wholly and unconditionally, and Jaskier couldn’t wait for the day he could tell Geralt he felt the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> \- Trauma aftermath  
> \- PTSD nightmares  
> \- Anxiety/panic attacks  
> \- Slight self-harm (during anxiety/panic attack)


	16. New Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Taking everything for granted but we still respect the time  
>  We move along with some new passion knowing everything is fine  
> And I would wait and watch the hours fall in a hundred separate lines  
> But I regain repose and wonder how I ended up inside”_  
> ~ Panic! At the Disco

Jaskier feels an aching twinge at the middle of his back with how he lays draped over the armchair, he knows that he isn’t a lanky, bendy teen anymore but there’s no way he’d admit it to himself. The way Regis subtly grins at him tells Jaskier the man must know of his plight, but says nothing continuing to allow Jaskier to lounge like a particularly lazy cat across the chair. Jaskier’s ego silently thanks him. Dr. Terzieff-Godefroy, or ‘Regis’ as he insists Jaskier call him - which Jaskier does, because that is too long of a last name if you ask him, and he isn’t sure his tongue can curl impressively enough to enunciate it correctly anyway - watches silently as Jaskier blathers on about his life over the past month. He says nothing of substance and they both know it, and Regis’s indulgence of Jaskier’s empty words is his only warning for the questions he knows are coming - it doesn’t mean he doesn’t grimace when they do, but that’s because of his back. Honest. Sorta.

“Sounds like living with Geralt has helped you get back into your normal routine without too much trouble,” Regis surmises, his pen balances loosely between his index and middle fingers where his arm hangs rests off the edge of the armrest - it isn’t even clicked open, hasn’t been for the past twenty minutes.

Jaskier relaxes a little when it isn’t one of the questions he’d been expecting, and the bastard probably knew it too but Jaskier was willing to answer anything else if it meant prolonging the inevitable. His voice wavers a little despite his relief at the question, most likely wouldn’t have noticed, but it was Regis’s _job_ to notice, “I suppose so...”

“You don’t think so?” Regis sounds a little surprised at this, it’s a sedate level of surprise, but Jaskier inwardly grins all the same.

Jaskier liked Regis the moment Geralt introduced them, singing the man’s praises as enthusiastically as Geralt was capable - which was more a bunch of hums instead of grunts. Geralt labelled Regis as the man who helped him through some of his hardest moments, but Regis had been humble enough to say Geralt did all the real work, he just nudged him in the right direction. It probably spoke to Regis’s skills and capabilities that he had and still does remain so patient when speaking to someone as reserved as Geralt - let alone trying to get him to open up. Regis joked it was like pulling teeth at times during their sessions, but Geralt nor Regis ever gave up despite the difficulties. However, over the past month, Jaskier found he’d made it a personal mission to be able to catch the man off-guard. It was a little childish, sure but it made the process easier, so sue him.

“Well...” Jaskier trails trying to gather his thoughts, honestly how was he supposed to tell Regis that he both loved and hated living with Geralt? Well, no, not ‘hated’ per se, but it could be so _frustrating_.

Jaskier feels like they’ve been tip-toeing around each other since the morning after Olgierd’s assault. At least, that’s how Jaskier’s been feeling. He’s living in Geralt’s guest room indefinitely, both Regis and Geralt well aware he was far too anxious in his own home after Olgierd revealed he’d been _watching_ Jaskier at the place for months on end. Now, the moment he was alone in that place he’d spin out into a panic attack at the slightest noise. Geralt had picked him up from his apartment three nights in a row before suggesting for Jaskier to just stay at his place until he found a new one and Jaskier had jumped at the opportunity. However, it hadn’t been easy living with Geralt, but it wasn’t for any of the reasons Jaskier would have thought.

Geralt wasn’t messy, inconsiderate, loud or anything else that would make living with him less than pleasant. Living with him was extremely pleasant. _More_ than 'pleasant.' A fucking _dream come true_ if Jaskier was being honest with himself, even if the circumstances for _why_ he now lived with Geralt weren’t particularly splendid. He could honestly say he felt happy and _safe_ in Geralt’s house. Morning breakfasts with the man he loved almost painfully, lunches with Yen and Triss and movie nights with Ciri; he felt like he was finally a part of the family he never had, so what was there to complain about?

 _Well, where do I fucking start?_ Jaskier thinks with a huff, _how about that the fucker insists on walking around in the mornings without a shirt, or that every time I come home from lunch with the girls he’s back from gymming with his brothers and is all fucking hot and sweaty and_ flushed! _Oh, oh or how about that every movie night he sits_ just _out of reach, and almost always falls asleep half-way through a movie and looks far too adorable and_ endearing _for a farther nearing his forties has_ any _right to be!_ Okay, so _some_ things _were_ driving Jaskier mad, but they weren’t innately _bad_ , just...well, _frustrating_.

“Has he been restricting you?” Regis’s tone pulls Jaskier from his thoughts because, for the first time, the psychologist sounds a little _pissed_ , much to Jaskier’s genuine surprise, “if he’s been hindering your state of mind or progress, Jaskier, I suggest-“

“No!” Jaskier quickly jumps in to stop Regis’s building tirade, even moving to sit upright in his seat, “it’s not like _that_ , it’s- it’s...damn it I’m _frustrated_ , Regis! I haven’t fucked in over a _month_ , and my dick feels like it’s about to _fall off_ for more reasons than one! And you haven’t seen a damn _tease_ until you’ve seen Geralt walking out of a shower in nothing but a damn _towel_ like he’s about to pose for a Playgirl centrefold! It should be _illegal_ , frankly and- and...oh, oh you _bastard_.”

Regis, in the most professional manner of all highly trained and regarded mental health professionals, _cackles_ at Jaskier’s blathering downward spiral about his sexual frustrations since living with Geralt. He almost wants to throw his doc martens at the man’s head, but instead, Jaskier finds himself laughing along. Fine, maybe this outburst _was_ a long time coming but _still!_ Regis was smart, Jaskier would give him that, the man was always patient and would go at Jaskier’s pace of comfort during their sessions but sometimes he’d subtly _nudge_ him, so to speak, into opening up about things - _like he said he does with Geralt,_ Jaskier muses, _I wonder if it’s in the same ways, too, oh how Geralt probably scowls at the poor man._

Regis knew which topics struck nerves within Jaskier and approached them in roundabout ways, ways that made them _easier_ to open up about. By now, one would think Jaskier would be able to catch on to the misdirects that would lead to places Jaskier thought he was too uncomfortable to go, but Regis was clever and Jaskier had to hand it to him, it _worked_. Jaskier had given up on therapy years ago, his first doctor opting to drug him up after not-so-subtly sloughing through their sessions together looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, and ending it with yet _another_ prescription letter. Jaskier had been self-medicating at the time, and his depressed self-loathing had convinced him his drugs were ‘better’ than theirs, and he’d believed it with the logic only teenagers possessed. Jaskier remembered feeling smaller, even as a slight sixteen-year-old, after those sessions with Dr. Stregobor, and gave up on them after being told medication would be his only solution. Looking back, it had been a mistake he can now admit to; therapy hadn’t been the issue nor the medication, he just hadn’t found the right doctor for him. And Regis was proving time and again to be a good fit for Jaskier.

“Well it’s good to know Geralt’s still treating you well, even if he’s about to make you tug your cock off,” Regis comments through a chuckle, a chuckle and sentiment that Jaskier shares. “Have you considered speaking to him about it? You both seem very open with each other.”

It was true since Jaskier had been living with Geralt the man was more willing to trying to be as open and honest with Jaskier as possible, and Jaskier knew that wasn’t easy for someone as reserved as Geralt, which made Jaskier appreciate his efforts all the more. Hell, Geralt even helped him _prep_ for online sessions with _other clients_ ; he'd meant it when he’d said he supported Jaskier’s decision to keep doing his job. It couldn’t be easy for him, especially after his...confession. In all honesty, it surprised Jaskier the first few times, especially when Geralt _offered_ to go back to his apartment to pick up everything he’d need from clothes to lingerie, and even his toys. Geralt never looked at him differently, nor treated him different, but something _was_ undoubtedly different between them now.

“He...” Jaskier didn’t know how to finish that; what _was_ Geralt? How was Geralt _different?_

Jaskier was sure if he asked, the man would happily fall into bed with him but is that what he wanted? It took a special brand of bravery to confess your feelings, a brand Jaskier was _very_ familiar with and one that always leads to heartbreak not so long after. Had he done that to Geralt? While Jaskier stands by his decision to not say _those words_ back a month ago, knowing Geralt would have thought he was only saying them to keep him close or because he felt vulnerable and Geralt was being kind - and even if those reasons weren’t _the_ reasons he loved Geralt (perhaps just reasons he loved him _more),_ the man wouldn’t know that. Because over the past month, Geralt hadn’t reciprocated any of Jaskier’s advances, he hadn’t been _mean_ about his rebuffs when in all honesty, he very well _could_ have been; he’d told Jaskier he loved him, and a month on Jaskier _still_ hasn’t answered that confession. People have been far _pettier_ over far _less_. But every rejection, no matter how kindly done, stung Jaskier all the same.

“He?” Regis prompts, pulling Jaskier from his thoughts; if it were up to Jaskier he’d likely be spending all these sessions stuck in his head, but thankfully Regis knew when to pull him back to reality with the right push or prod.

“He..he’s so _nice_ , Regis. I know that sounds like a stupid thing to complain about but...he handles me like I’m _glass_. Not...not when it ‘ _matters_ ,’ like during an attack or after a nightmare, but when things are normal and I...I _try_ to flirt with him only for him to brush off those advances. Fuck...what if Geralt's moved on, Regis? I- I haven’t asked him if he still loves me in _weeks_ , fuck what if- I...I _can’t_ lose him-“

“Jaskier,” Regis’s voice cuts in, waiting for Jaskier to calm down before continuing, “maybe take a step back, we talked about this before; it’s easy to get tunnel-visioned about what’s right in front of you. Given everything you’ve gone through, you’ve spent this past month not only trying to come to terms with it all but learn how to best handle the trauma, and Geralt has been front and center for it all from the beginning. He’s gone from a detached client to someone that cares for you enough to let you live with him- no, don’t make that look, Jask, as you said yourself that he _offered_ to do it all. Geralt _wants_ to be there for you.”

“Then why won’t he even _kiss_ me anymore?!” Jaskier feels small in the armchair, like a child screaming to understand the world, but no explanation given is enough to quell that innate human _fear_ of the unknown. “Regis, since that first morning, Geralt doesn’t do more than _hug_ me, and even then _I_ have to be the one to reach out first! It’s always _me,_ and- and I can’t help but fucking feel like I’m _forcing_ my presence on him at this point.”

“That’s understandable, so why don’t we take a moment to talk about Geralt’s confession to you?”

“We’ve been over it, do you need me to lament about it in prose as well?” Jaskier huffs, slumping petulantly in his seat. He was allowed a moment of petulance, he was paying for these sessions after all - well, his insurance was, but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Please don’t,” the man chides, his hand still limp over the side of the chair’s armrest. Jaskier’s surprised none of this was noted down, don’t therapists write everything down? “I’m sure Geralt isn’t the first client to express his feelings towards you?”

“He’s not a client though, he’s _more_ than that and you _know_ it. He’s _been_ so much more than 'just a client' for a while now,” Jaskier sighs, scrubbing his face, feeling like he’s going in circles.

“Does _he_ know that?” Jaskier’s head jerks up at that, his mouth hanging open but...no words come forth, “from what you told me about the arrangement he’d hired you for, he was following your lead. You’d made it clear to me when I asked about your dynamic with him that even if he had the ‘power,’ as you put it, you were the one in control.”

Jaskier slumps in his seat, going over the man’s words and the past month with a new perspective. Regis was right, of course. Geralt’s want from control stemmed from the need for absolute trust _to_ control his partner in bed; Jaskier had all the power and control in that dynamic, even if he was ‘giving it over’ to Geralt. Was that it? Geralt _waiting_ for Jaskier’s lead, not wanting to presume his ‘right’ to whatever advances Jaskier was putting forth? _He’d never cross a boundary you set, but where do those boundaries lie, now? After everything?_

“That night, your power and control were stripped from you, Jaskier,” Regis continues after a lull of silence, shifting a little in his seat to sit forward, “Geralt is operating from a place of care, and perhaps it’s an _overly_ cautious kind of care, but knowing what could have happened to you had Olgierd not been stopped, perhaps his caution is warranted...especially if he doesn’t know where he stands with you?”

“And I was always in control,” Jaskier’s sounds a little breathless, even to his ears. But something cold coils in his gut at the thought; Geralt said he loved him...if Jaskier pressed would he just _give in_ thinking it would be the best way to keep Jaskier close?

“You’re making a face-“

“I’m not ‘making a face,’ this is _my face!”_ Jaskier tries for playfully affronted, attempting to will away the uncomfortable film he feels coating his insides at the thought, but Regis’s raised brow tells him he isn’t falling for it. _Damnit, why can’t he be shit at his job like my last doctor was?_ “Fine, you win. What if...what if Geralt only goes along with what I ask for because he thinks it’ll keep me there, with him?”

Regis sits back in his seat, watching Jaskier with an expression he isn’t sure how to identify, but it errs on the side of incredulous disbelief, “has Geralt ever done anything he didn’t want to?”

 _Well, when he says it like that it sounds silly,_ Jaskier thinks with a visible roll of his eyes, but once again, Regis was spot on. Geralt hadn’t ever done what he didn’t want to, maybe things he was _uncomfortable_ with sure, but never things he didn’t _want_ to. At their first meeting, Geralt's discomfort was seeping out of his _pores_ until Jaskier patiently and _clearly_ explained what the dynamic he wanted _truly_ entailed and that it wasn’t some fucked up, glorified form of abuse but a beautiful and respectful balance of trust. Jaskier even thinks back to their first session together, remembering the tense lines of Geralt's shoulders when he revealed his scarred form to Jaskier for the first time; he’d been uncomfortable but had taken that first step, all the same, _knowing_ he could back out at any moment and that Jaskier would _let_ him.

 _I’ve been doing this all wrong,_ Jaskier thinks with an almost surreal level of slightly cautious glee, _we both have_. Jaskier looks to Regis, trying to pars out his thoughts and words before speaking, “if I talk to him, about what I want, how do you know it’ll work? What if it just drives him farther away?”

“How do you know it won’t?” Regis counters, a small smile pulling at the corner of the older man’s mouth, “you explained to me that your first meeting with Geralt was all about laying down the groundwork for the true sentiment behind the dynamic he wanted with someone, with you; in laymen terms, you talked to each other, Jask, and cleared up the misconceptions he had.”

Jaskier chuckles softly, though it comes out more like an amused huff as he runs a hand through his hair, “I feel like an idiot. I establish clear communication with clients all the time, and now with Geralt, I fucking _forget_ how to even tell him I want to be _cuddled_.”

Regis’s smile becomes a little more pronounced, but it isn’t patronizing, more akin to someone happy to hear good news on another’s behalf, “sometimes it’s easy to forget the basics, Jaskier, especially when it comes to ourselves."

"Clearly," Jaskier sighs, his hands working to fix his hair and undo the mess he'd likely caused after running a hand through it.

"So,” Regis starts after a lull of silence, “what do you think you’re going to do now?”

“I’m thinking of making a nice Fettuccine Alfredo for dinner, Geralt’s had a hectic week at work,” Jaskier pulls his legs up onto the couch once he's satisfied with his hair, the width of the armchair wide enough for him to sit criss-cross and grins at Regis’s raised brow, “and perhaps finally talk to the brute about what I want.”

Regis’s hand finally moves from the armrest, the pen clicking open as the pen's tip scrawls across the paper of his notepad, “think you’ll tell him how you feel about him?”

Jaskier watches the pen's tip move along the thinned-out notepad for a moment, worrying at his lower lip. He _wanted_ to, wanted more than _anything_ to tell Geralt he loved him back and _more_ , but...could he? It had been a month since the Incident and Geralt’s confession; he was getting help now and was doing rather well if he did say so himself (and he very much _did_ ), so...why was he suddenly feeling hesitant? Sure, Jaskier had been in love before but never to this degree and he could acknowledge that, but the mechanics were the same, right? Jaskier was weak and wanting for anything and _everything_ when it came to Geralt, so what was the hold up of saying those three little words that held the universe within them?

 _It’s the final nail in the coffin_ , some unhelpful part of his brain supplies and the worst part is, it isn’t wrong. Jaskier knew Geralt was _it_ for him, and that, frankly, scared the _shit_ of out Jaskier.

“...maybe.”

* * *

Jaskier leaves Regis's office with a new bounce in his step and lightness in his chest. He knew, realistically speaking, that things wouldn’t play out as easily as he'd planned. And while dinner and a conversation would be a splendid start, life - especially as of late - seemed to have a way of...well, _fucking_ with Jaskier. He could hope for the best, but damn it if he wouldn’t prepare for the worst. He makes his way down the office hallways to the waiting room and slows in his step when he sees a head of familiar white hair. Geralt was always there, after his sessions, ready to take him home - _heh, I think of his house as ‘home’ now...I wonder what Regis would think about that_ \- or to his favourite café if Jaskier was feeling down after a particularly hard session. It helped, hell, just _seeing_ Geralt always helped and this time was no different. Right then, he felt a little more determined to see his plan through, because that man was more than worth the risk - he always was, to Jaskier.

Geralt was on the phone when Jaskier spotted him, continuing to huff and murmur into the device even as he approached, clearly distracted by whatever conversation he was having. Geralt rolls his eyes, the motion stopping mid-way as he spots Jaskier walking up to him, sighing in a way that Jaskier knew well; he was acquiescing to whomever he was speaking to. Jaskier couldn’t help but grin a little at the sight; again, _far_ too adorable than he had any right to be.

“Fine, but I’m not staying longer than an hour,” Geralt warns into the phone before ending the call as he stands, turning to Jaskier, “ready to go?”

“Yes,” Jaskier answers, walking beside him as they head to the parking lot, “what was that about? Sounded serious.”

Geralt sighs, looking a bit apologetic, “it was Eskel, someone fucked up when writing up a contract and now the client is having a fucking hissy fit. We have to go over the damn thing with a fine-toothed comb, _again_ , to clear up the issue so I have to head back to the office. I’m sorry, Jask, I know I promised lunch-”

“We could go after?” Jaskier suggests, Geralt was dedicated to their family company and he wouldn’t fault the man for needing to go back into the office, plus, it would be interesting to see what Geralt’s office looked like. “I could cheer you guys on while you work, and get you coffee! I was a temp for a while, and about ninety percent of my job was coffee-runs, I’m _extremely_ good at coffee-runs.”

Geralt looks a little surprised by his reaction and Jaskier can’t help but wonder why, wanting to prod a little, but decides against it when he sees the man grin, “are you sure? It’ll be boring as hell.”

“Sure I’m sure,” Jaskier answers with his own, wider grin, “I get to spend time with you, how boring could it be?”

Geralt chuckles softly, opening the passenger door of Roach for Jaskier, _ever the gentleman_ , “you’re going to regret those words, but I promise to make it up to you.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jaskier smiles at Geralt, looking up at him from his seat in the car and not for the first time, feels his heart flutter in his chest at Geralt’s matching smile.

 _I love you,_ he thinks but doesn't dare say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I’m super sorry for the delay, I just kept going back and forth on this chapter unsatisfied with how it was until now. I really hope I did this chapter justice, and I promise you all another update this coming week like usual! Thank you all so much for your lovely comments and support, they really do make my day! Love y’all amazing humans, and I hope to see you back for the next (spicy?) chapter! Haha! xxoxoo


	17. Ask (and You Shall Receive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And I know,  
>  I've said this all before,  
> But opposites attract.  
> We try and run away,  
> But end up running back.  
> And all I want to do,  
> All I want to do,  
> Is lie down and...  
> Crash, fall down.  
> I'll wrap my arms around you now.  
> Just crash, it's our time now,  
> To make this work, second time around.”_  
> ~ You Me At Six, _Crash_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back...

_This is boring as hell,_ Jaskier silently concedes to Geralt’s earlier words as he spins around on the man’s desk chair - it was honestly rather comfy, which was surprising to Jaskier. Geralt always seemed like a ‘minimal lavishness’ sort of man,  _well to be fair he probably spends a bulk of his day behind this desk, may as well avoid getting a bruised tailbone out of it._

Geralt’s office was equally fancy as it was intimidating. When Jaskier thought of a ‘family business’ his mind pictured a quaint little shop handled with care and passed down from generation to generation, perhaps even hearing the phrase ‘this is how we’ve always done things,’ being thrown around a few times in answer to quirks in the workflow. However, what he _hadn’t_ expected was a multi-million dollar security and consulting firm that did just about everything short of being actual superheroes. From giving consultations with local companies and officials on how to best keep a concert or festival and it’s patrons safe while having a good time, to providing security for well-known celebrities and compiling teams to ensure the safety of _Prime Minister_ Calanthe Fiona Riannon.Jaskier had been torn between astonished awe and dumbfounded fascination when Geralt casually mentioned the Prime Minister _high-fived_ him. Geralt snickered while telling Jaskier that the woman had a hell of a strong grip, a factoid Lambert learned when she put him in a headlock.

Geralt’s office was large, most of the walls taken up by floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city with a view Jaskier felt he could stare at for hours; the floors were made of dark polished wood, the sun reflecting off them giving the office space a bright but warm feel that the eggshell walls complimented without being bland. It wasn’t an ostentatious space, but one designated for someone in a rather high position, and all Jaskier could think was:  _how had I not known about any of this?!_ Men in Geralt’s position tended to gloat about their accomplishments, prestige and sizable income - hell, there wasn’t a single appointment with Vilgefortz that the man wouldn’t talk about  _himself_ for at least a solid hour. Sometimes Jaskier wondered why the man bothered to hire him, sure he was sweet enough and even a little fun when he chose to be, but Vilgefortz was so clearly adept at stroking his ego Jaskier sometimes felt like  _he_ was lacking in his attempts to do so. However, Geralt failed to mention  any  of this, let alone his  _accomplishments_ with it, and they were many.

Jaskier had spent most of the day on the dark grey chaise lounge set in the middle of the office alongside a coffee table and other armchairs - for more informal meetings, he’d guess. Legs stretched out while he lazed, once again, like a self-satisfied cat his while Geralt’s typed away at his computer with a rather put-out expression; one that might have scared most away, though Jaskier found he couldn’t help but stare at the man’s face fondly every chance he got. He took the time to sniff around Google and see what he could find out about  _Wild Hunt Security and Consultants LLC;_ apparently, Wild Hunt was known for many things, and most Jaskier was not too surprised to find out were  _positives_.  From offering free protection for Pride parade participants to employing returning military vets, Jaskier realized Geralt had  _genuinely_ underplayed his accomplishments.

Jaskier almost wanted to throw his phone at the man with every article he’d read.

He’d almost turned to Geralt multiple times to ask  why  he’d never mentioned his work to Jaskier before, only to stay his tongue when he remembered that he’d never bothered to _ask_.  Most clients wanted the unique escape from their lives that Jaskier provided them, and thus he let  _them_ choose which topics they wanted to speak about unless they needed prompting to break away from their nerves. But from all their interactions so far, Geralt has only ever wanted to hear about  _Jaskier_.  He sort of loved and hated the way that thought made his throat close up; hated that he didn’t know nearly as much about _Geralt_ and his life as he  wanted to,  but loved that Geralt  _wanted_ to know about  _him_.  Clients never  _really_ cared about what Jaskier had to say, so most times he just made things up to answer the questions as simply and prettily as possible - to this day, he still chuckles when recalling telling a client he was part of a travelling circus. However, while Geralt was no longer a client Jaskier  _still_ hadn’t dug deeper into the man’s life, and even when he  _was_ Jaskier had already crossed so many of his boundaries with the man now he wasn’t sure where to  _start_.

_We really have been doing this all backwards,_ he thinks spinning around once again in Geralt’s desk chair, the silence of the dim office only broken by the sound of the chair’s wheels shifting on the polished floors _,_ _it’s time we did this right_.

Jaskier pressed the tip of his index finger against his phone’s camera, ensuring the grip with the pad of his finger before flicking outward and watches as the device spins on its PopSocket grip. His eyes follow the spin until it slows to a stop and sits back in the chair, letting loose a deep sigh; he didn’t regret coming to Geralt’s office, it was a cache of information about the man he’d never known, but it  _was_ boring with Geralt off in a meeting to sort out whatever mess had been made. Tipping his head back Jaskier rolls his neck to the side and feels a small smile tug at his lips at the photo of Ciri on Geralt’s desk. She was younger in the photo, grinning wide with her left front tooth missing, hands and mouth messily covered in the sticky sweetness of a strawberry ice lolly gripped tightly in her small hands; happy despite the mess in a way only kids ever tended to be. Ciri was such a beautiful little girl, all bright sunshine with the sparking fire of her mother and the determination of her father. Jaskier wondered, for a brief, fantastical moment, what he’d be able to teach her if he were to truly become part of her - part of  _their_ \- life.

And he _did_ , he _truly_ did  want to be part of their lives. Currently, Jaskier stood in a strange kind of limbo, his words were heard and his actions felt, and yet he remained stuck on the outside looking in. He knew this precarious situation wouldn’t last if only because he didn’t think his heart could take it; having a taste but never knowing the  _full_ truth of what he was missing would eventually break him.  _When had things gotten so complicated?_ Jaskier silently wonders, running a hand through his hair, lingering to scratch at the nape of his neck.

Jaskier  _wants_ to tell Geralt he loves him, the words linger at the tip of his tongue every time he so much as  _thinks_ about the man, but...he can’t. It’s almost ironic, that Jaskier wore his heart on his sleeve and was now too scared to bear it to the one person he wanted to give it to the most. Geralt  _has_ his heart if he’s being honest but just doesn’t know it. Doesn’t realize Jaskier had unknowingly placed the fragile beating thing in his strong, yet gentle hands. It’s that knowledge that scares him, the words just seal his fate. And Jaskier  _didn’t_ _want_ his words to be said out of desperation for the man to stay; for  _once_ in his life Jaskier wanted the words to be said  _knowing_ they just tied everything together rather than trying to  _keep_ them together.

Jaskier’s eyes linger on the photo of Ciri for a moment as he tries to bat away his thoughts to happier,  _calmer_ ones; there was no point in getting so maudlin when he’d yet to even  _talk_ to Geralt. Instead, he wonders what shade of hellion Ciri was when she was younger; Jaskier was a nightmare, going through a phase of  _adamantly_ trying to climb every surface in sight. He got a broken leg out of it, but still couldn’t bring himself to regret climbing the tree of his family’s home. The thing was intimidatingly tall - taller to his younger self - and Jaskier felt like he’d conquered Everest when he clung to the top branch at eight and stared down at his suburban neighbourhood.

A dull buzzing catches his attention, the sound muffled but loud enough Jaskier’s eyes quickly look down to stare at the long drawer of Geralt’s desk.  _I shouldn’t,_ he thinks, staring at the closed drawer. Jaskier was curious and snoopy by nature, but he’d managed to keep his wandering fingers to himself while he waited for Geralt,  _but it could be important._ Jaskier knows he’s being nosy but was so  _bored_ and, well...Jaskier never did do well with boredom. The buzzing stops just as he opens the drawer, the screen lighting up with a missed call notification. Jaskier wouldn’t pry more than he already had, only he sees the phone’s background and can’t help but smile at it; it’s a photo of Geralt holding a baby Ciri, the smile on his face so fond and wide Jaskier can’t help but stare for a moment. He’s about to close the drawer when the phone buzzes again but this time with a text notification and Jaskier’s smile drops from his face, knowing he likely pales as he feels his heart stutter when his eyes catch sight of the words before his hands could push the drawer closed.

**_ Renfri - Now: yesterday was fun, how about a repeat performance tomorrow? ;P _ **

The slam of the drawer closing makes Jaskier jolt, narrowly missing his fingers but he can’t bring himself to care, his mind reeling at the text’s words. He berates himself for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, _why_ couldn’t he just mind his own fucking business? Cat, meet curiosity. Jaskier’s knuckles go white with how tightly he grips at the edge of the desk, trying to remind himself to _breathe_ but- _Geralt‘s moved on_ , Jaskier feels his hands begin to tremble and something sharp catches in his throat, _he’s found someone else._ But could he _blame_ him? Geralt’s been different, recently, and hell Jaskier been _aware_ of it strikingly enough he’d even told _Regis_ about it.

“Goddamn it,” Jaskier whispers under his breath, tipping forward to bury his face in the crook of his elbow where his arms folded atop the desk, slouching forward in the seat to scream into his elbow, “God _DAMN IT!”_ He cries, slamming a fist against the tabletop as he tries to bite back tears.

He should have moved faster, should have  _spoken_ to Geralt  _sooner_ ,  and now... _now I’ve missed my chance._ Jaskier’s jaw tenses hard enough to give him a headache, his eyes squeezing shut so tightly phosphenes began to appear behind his eyelids in the dark. His heart feels ensnared by something cold and painful, it steals the breath from his lungs, and it was only at the burn he begins to feel building in his chest that he remembered to breathe. _ It’s too late, it’s too fucking LATE-_

“Hey Jask, I’m sorry it took so long-“ he’d missed the sound of the office door clicking open, and now felt a new sense of dread and numb loneliness wash over him at the warm, apologetic voice of Geralt. “Jask, are you okay?”

- _no, no it’s not._ Jaskier hears the man rush over to his side, the hand on his thigh forcing him to look to his left and see Geralt kneeling beside him with a worried expression. _I won’t let it be,_ he thinks and reaches out for Geralt, his hand cups the man’s face and before he can think better of it, Jaskier lurches forward and kisses him. He hears Geralt’s surprised inhale and there’s a moment, a quick, terrifying moment where Jaskier thinks he’ll pull away, and the relief he feels when Geralt kisses him  _back_ hits Jaskier like a freight train.

Jaskier doesn’t dare break the kiss, not even to breathe when he feels his lungs calling out for air. Lowering himself from the chair Jaskier straddles Geralt’s lap, the man moves to sit back on his hunches from his knelt position and grips Jaskier’s hips while Jaskier encircles his neck with his arms. The writer  _swears_ Geralt can feel the pounding of his heart when their chests press together, their bodies flush to one another, but he never wants this moment to end. Being apart from Geralt felt like there was an ocean between them, the waves sending him drifting and feeling aimless, yearning for something solid; something  _real_.  For the first time in  _weeks_ ,  Jaskier feels like he’s finally found dry land and could  _breathe_ again.

The need for air eventually won out, much to Jaskier’s dismay, but he doesn’t dare pull away when breaking the kiss and keeps Geralt as close as he can. His arms tighten around the older man’s neck as he noses at his strong, stubbled jaw, and Jaskier’s breath wafts hot and quick against the side of Geralt’s neck. He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes, too scared of what he might see in Geralt’s if he did. Jaskier had been complicit in cheating behaviour before, it came with the territory of his occupation, and no matter how much the man and women that hired him would claim they didn’t have spouses or lovers waiting for them at home, he always  _knew_.  But this... _Geralt was a_ _ good man _ and Jaskier knew he wasn’t the moment he kissed him because at that moment Jaskier willingly accepted the fact that this made him Geralt’s dirty little secret -  _again_.  And this time, it was his own doing.  _I can’t let him go, I can’t  __lose him,_ he thinks desperately, clinging to Geralt before pulling the man into another heated, desperate kiss when he hears him inhale to speak. 

Jaskier knew he’d stop if Geralt pushed him away,  _knew_ he’d pack his things and leave that night if Geralt told him to because he  _would not_ force himself on  _anyone_.  But Geralt kissed him _back_ ,  and that  _had_ to mean something _,_ _it has to._ Jaskier feels torn between melting into Geralt’s touch and trying blinking away the tell-tale burn behind his eyes when he feels the man’s large, warm hand cup his face; the brush of his thumb along Jaskier’s cheek and the cooling wet smear tells him he lost the battle against his tears. It gave Jaskier some semblance of comfort that Geralt hasn’t yet let him go. He savours this kiss more than the last because once he hears Geralt sigh and gently breaks away from it, he’s terrified it may have been their last.

Geralt, to Jaskier’s genuine surprise, doesn’t try to disentangle them or push him away. Instead, the older man  _leans in_ and wraps his arms around Jaskier’s torso, ducking his head forward to rest against Jaskier’s collarbone. Geralt almost... _clings_ to Jaskier just as tightly, just as  _desperately_ as Jaskier has been holding on to him. Jaskier feels like he’s misstepped, somehow; he’s missed something but can’t put his finger on  _what_.

“Jaskier,” it breaks brunet’s heart when he hears Geralt’s voice, the normally soothingly deep baritone cracking on the last syllable of his name. There’s a question there, he  _knows_ there’s an unasked plead lingering in the letters of his name but he can’t decipher what it is and it  _kills_ him. It breaks Jaskier’s heart that there’s so much  _hurt_ in his voice when Geralt speaks his name.

_Talk to him,_ Jaskier tells himself, his hands gripping at the back of Geralt’s shirt into his curling fists,  _tell him._

“I miss you, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers into Geralt’s soft, white hair and turns his face to nose at the pale strands while Geralt remains pressed against his neck, “this past month I’ve had you but...but I  _didn’t_ at the same time. And I just... _I_ _miss you_ ,  Geralt. Please,  _please_ come back to me.”

There’s a silence that encompasses the room and Jaskier doesn’t breathe through it, too anxious he’ll miss something over the sound of his breathing and battering heart. He feels like he’s about to fall apart when Geralt begins to pull back, the searing pain he feels lancing through him halting abruptly when the man doesn’t pull away altogether but instead far back enough to just  _look_ at Jaskier. The expression in his eyes is... _legion_.  So many different emotions flash, linger and swirl in Geralt’s hazel-gold eyes that Jaskier can’t catch on to one long enough to understand it; they range from fear to joy, from sadness and anger to relief and... _love_.  It makes Jaskier’s head spin, but for once he doesn’t feel dizzy on the comedown, not when Geralt leans forward to kiss him slow, shallow and soft, pressing their foreheads together as his steady breathing gently fans over Jaskier’s lips.

“You have me, Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice is soft, softer than he’s ever heard it before like he’s scared something will  _break_ if he isn’t careful - Jaskier thinks he agrees about the fragility of this moment, too. “You always have, I just didn’t...I didn’t  _know_ if...if I had  _you_.”

“You have me, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, tilting his head to ghost his words and lips against the man’s beneath him, “you have all of me.”

Jaskier closes the scant space between their lips, his heart thrumming when he feels Geralt carefully surge forward to close the distance, relishing in the soft, warm press of their mouths. Jaskier’s hands slowly slide forward, running up Geralt’s shoulders and neck, coming up into his hair and gripping the man’s silver locks. His grip loosens the tie’s hold on Geralt’s loose bun at the nape of his neck, the hair slowly slipping free and falling loose around the older man’s face. A warm, familiar shiver ripples up his spine when Jaskier feels the soft strands brush against his cheeks while Geralt’s own hands move to grip at his waist, the pads of his fingers finding warm skin between the hemline of Jaskier’s shirt and the waist of his jeans.

“Jaskier,” the name comes out low and breathless, the sound of it alone making Jaskier’s heart pick up speed as something hot and heavy coils low in his stomach.

“I’m here, love,” Jaskier mouths the words against the side of Geralt’s neck, kiss-bruised lips pressing against warm skin as his tongue darts out to follow Geralt’s jumping pulse. Jaskier rolls his hips and feels himself smile when Geralt hisses at the friction, his hands tightening at his hips to pull Jaskier closer.

Geralt’s hips buck upward while his hands slip under Jaskier’s shirt and slowly wander up his flanks, rucking the writer’s shirt up, up and  _up_ until it’s bunched under his arms. Jaskier breaks the kiss unwillingly, but only pulls back enough to quickly rid himself of the shirt, his skin almost calling out for Geralt to touch after so long of going without him. Jaskier’s movements slow before he can dart forward to kiss Geralt again, and it’s the expression on the man’s face that does it. Geralt stares up at Jaskier like...like he’s a  _Godsend_ ,  Jaskier almost has to look away at the intense reverence he sees in hazel-gold eyes. It’s too much,  _Geralt_ is too much and Jaskier hasn’t had  _enough_.  Breaking his eyes away from the open and  _longing_ expression on Geralt’s face, from the  want  in his blown pupils. Jaskier finally steals the kiss he’d sought, slowly lowering the man down to lay sprawled out on the floor but doesn’t break their kiss.

Jaskier remains hovering over the older man, rolling his hips in a slow, teasing circle, moaning into their kiss as Geralt’s stiff cock presses against his own through their jeans. Not for the first time, Jaskier marvels at how beautiful Geralt looks beneath him; cheeks and neck flush with lust while his lips remain slightly parted to breathe for a moment before reaching for Jaskier’s mouth with his own, teeth and tongue working in a hot, wet slide to drive Jaskier mad. Reaching between them Jaskier makes quick work of his button and fly, fumbling a little on Geralt’s belt when the man latches his mouth against his collarbone, and Jaskier feels the tell-tale biting-suck of a marking being made when he finally frees Geralt’s stiff cock from its confines. Geralt’s hands grip his arse in a firm hold, palming at the flesh while Jaskier’s bicep trembles as he continues to brace himself up and reach for his own pulsing prick.

Geralt was wearing far too many clothes but there was no helping it, their movements were desperate, messy and scalding. For a man as reserved as Geralt to willingly rut against Jaskier’s bare stomach on the floor of his  _office_ , biting back moans at the slick slide as his head thumps against the polished floor, well. It was the fucking hottest things Jaskier has ever seen. The sight of Geralt splayed out beneath him, silver hair a stark contrast to the wooden flooring with soft,  _desperate_ moans escaping his parted lips was something Jaskier wouldn’t soon forget.  _I did this_ ,  he thinks, wrapping his hands around their cocks, his grip just enough to keep their lengths pressed together in a maddening slide of wet friction,  _I did this to him._ The thought both pains and exhilarates Jaskier, but he doesn’t pause to examine the reason for the former, instead ducking down to capture Geralt’s lips in a clumsy kiss as he feels himself reaching the end of his rope.

Geralt’s right-hand leaves it’s bruising hold on Jaskier’s arse to join his own on their cocks, the grip of the two men holding each other almost unbearable but offered the last  _push_ they needed to fall over the edge of bliss. It would have been embarrassing how fast Jaskier’s release rips through him had Geralt not been seconds behind, their hips bucking forward in a stuttering jolt as they spill over their fists, streaking Geralt’s rucked up shirt and Jaskier’s chest with their shared lust. Jaskier almost collapses onto Geralt but manages to hold himself up long enough for Geralt to remove his shirt, haphazardly cleaning off Jaskier before discarding the material to the side.

Jaskier lays atop Geralt and buries his face into the crook of the man’s neck, his grip on Geralt tight despite the lethargy in his limbs. He inhales, deep and long wanting to imprint the smell on Geralt’s skin into his senses; pinewood and the tang of  _sex_ had never smelt so divine. Jaskier didn’t _want_ to let go, didn’t  want  to feel uncertainty seep back into his bones, the protective barrier of Geralt’s arms around him seemed to keep those insecurities away. However, while he knew he was biding his time, Jaskier decided to enjoy the moment. Geralt may have found someone else, but Jaskier would prove to him he didn’t  _need_ anyone else...at least, he  _hopes_ he can prove that to Geralt.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Jask?” Geralt asks after a lull of silence, his voice just above a whisper as the sweat on their skin slowly dries and the haze of lust dissipates. Jaskier closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling of Geralt’s bare chest against his own for another moment before slowly nodding.

“I’m great,” the words ring a little hollow even to his own ears and hopes Geralt doesn’t catch it, but when the man hums he allows himself to relax, for now. “I could go for a meal, though,” he adds, his attempt at normalcy a little more steady this time.

“I’ll cook, how does pasta sound?” Geralt asks, though he makes no move to disentangle them and Jaskier has to bite back a laugh;  _he_ was supposed to make them pasta tonight, said as much to Regis, as part of his plan to  _talk_ to Geralt.

_So much for that plan,_ he thinks, feeling a little like he wants to smack himself or cry. Or maybe both.

“Sounds like a plan,” Jaskier mumbles back, though he doesn’t bother to shift to make good on their plans. He just wants to stay in this moment, this step forward for them, despite the two steps back. He can handle this,  _he can._ He has Geralt, Jaskier  _knows_ that...now he just has to prove to Geralt he was worth  _staying_ for.

Jaskier holds onto Geralt a little tighter, ignoring the way his heart sinks and twists at the sound of vibrations coming from Geralt's desk drawer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst is strong with this one! I honestly didn’t see this chapter headed in this direction, but wow-wee! Hahaha wellI hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did! All your support from last chapter was so friggin’ amazing, it honestly made my day hearing from you all about how you felt about the chapter and what your thoughts on it were!! I genuinely am stunned and so goddamn appreciative of all your support, thank you so much!! I hope to see y’all back next chapter!! xxoxoo


	18. Uncanny Valley Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncanny valley  
>  _noun_ [ U or S ] (also Uncanny Valley)  
>  **UK /ʌnˌkæn.i ˈvæl.i/ US /ʌnˌkæn.i ˈvæl.i/**  
>  Used to refer to the unpleasant feeling that some people have when they see robots (= machines that can carry out actions automatically), or pictures of a human being created by a computer, that appear very similar to a living human:  
>  ****  
>  _Uncanny valley describes a situation in which a machine looks so eerily "almost but not quite human" that it just creeps people out._  
> 

The past week has been...well, the best way Geralt felt he could describe it was like a fever dream of sorts. Ever since the night at his office with Jaskier, things had been different between them and yet, somehow, the same but... _not_ all at once. Yeah, it was as confusing to explain as it was for Geralt to try and understand. The dynamic between him and Jaskier has just felt very...uncanny valley, somehow. Real, but not. Geralt hadn’t expected Jaskier to come onto him so strongly that night. Hadn’t expected it Jaskier to come onto him at all, in all honesty. He didn’t know what prompted it but knew that there were things left unsaid, and it was those lingering words that made him feel so uneasy the past week. It would have been easy to brush off the feeling, to pretend like the air didn’t feel taut and drawn between them when he woke up beside Jaskier every morning since their night together. Oh yeah, that was another thing; Jaskier started sleeping in his bed. Geralt wanted to be happy about it, he really, _really_ did and in the mornings there were moments when he was still in a haze, straddling the line between dreaming and wakefulness that he could _forget_ the not-quite-right facsimile of normality he and Jaskier have created for themselves.

He couldn’t stop thinking about that night at the office, sprawled out beneath Jaskier and for the first time in over a month Geralt felt like there were _finally_ no walls between them...at least for a little while. He’d told Jaskier he loved him, _told_ him he was _his,_ and yet once their intimacy had faded he knew something had changed; could almost _feel_ Jaskier’s walls building themselves back up. The sweat on their skins hadn't even dried when he felt the yawning chasm between them grow. Geralt wasn’t a man to easily cry, the last time he could remember doing so was the day Ciri was born and he held her for the first time, but that night he’d almost cried. He could remember feeling the tension building behind his eyes and temples, feel the unfamiliar but tell-tale burn as he tried to blink away the ache, and just held Jaskier a little tighter while they lay together in his bed. Jaskier had already been asleep by that point, and Geralt was thankful for it, he didn’t think he’d have been able to keep the tears at bay had he been faced with a closed off and guarded cornflower gaze.

The past week had been a hellish sort of heaven, like a twisted wish granted by a Djinn that would twist your words in the worst possible way; want to be taller? Here, have a four-foot forehead, or how about immortality? Go ahead, just know you’ll feel every painful death and have the scars to prove it; want to spend the rest of your life with the man you love? Sure, but know that every touch will feel cold, distant, and every word will be heartbreak. Geralt got his wish to have Jaskier (‘ _you have me, Geralt,’_ he remembers Jaskier whispering to him, his lips grazing his own, ‘ _you have all of me’_ ), and felt the lancing pain knowing the man didn’t _want_ him...not like Geralt wanted him. Geralt would call himself melodramatic at the thought that Jaskier didn’t want him, the affection was clearly there. However, it was hard to bring himself to believe otherwise when, over the past week, he would catch Jaskier staring at him with...such a saddened look of _distrust,_ and Geralt felt his heart sink every time. Did Jaskier not trust Geralt’s confession? Did he...not trust _Geralt?_ Their whole relationship _began_ on trust, as blind as it was in the beginning, and now every side-ways glance Jaskier threw his way made Geralt feel like a vile human being.

Geralt honestly wondered where they went so wrong, it would be easy to say it was Olgierd’s fault, but he knew it was before that...he could pinpoint the downfall of whatever they _could_ have had to that morning at the diner. He still felt his chest seize up at the way Jaskier looked that morning as he fled, the shattered expression on his face when Geralt caught up to him and told him to call him ‘Dandelion.’ Which boiled it down to one simple, but painfully undeniable fact: this was Geralt’s fault. However, that fact also gave him some semblance of _hope_ in a strange, messed up way because if he fucked this up then that means _he_ could _fix_ this, right? Geralt wished he was better at this, better at _words_ because Jaskier deserved _better_ but he just couldn’t find the _damn_ _words._ Yennefer always told him he was shite at communicating, but that was what he _needed_ to do and by the Gods, he _would try._ Just...not yet _, I just need a little time,_ he told himself.So Geralt knew he was being a coward by distracting himself, tentatively tip-toeing through the week and pretending at normalcy instead of trying to find a way to rebuild what he and Jaskier had before he’d carelessly thrown a grenade at it and blown it all to hell.

Renfri has been a good distraction for Geralt, the past two weeks with her had taken his mind out of reality and forced him to focus on the _moment,_ which he currently wasn’t doing, and was why he found himself pinned beneath her instead of the other way around.

“You’re making this too easy,” Renfri chuckles into his ear, her breath coming out of soft pants against his damp neck as she leans forward, straddling his waist from behind, “keep this up and I’ll start to think you _like_ gettin’ your ass kicked.”

Geralt rolls his eyes despite knowing Renfri won’t catch it with his face mushed against the ring’s floor mat. He taps his unpinned hand three times and she finally lets up, allowing Geralt to bring his arm to his front from where she’d pinned it half-way up his back. Geralt rolls over onto his back, lying spread-eagle on the company’s boxing ring floor. He stares up at Renfri feeling begrudgingly impressed; Geralt wasn’t an easy man to pin down, and the fact a person half his size could do so spoke to her sheer skill in grappling and hand-to-hand combat, but also to his lack of attention. Geralt stuck his arm out and Renfri helped pull him up off the gym's floor, the duo readying themselves into their beginning stances before going for each other once again.

Renfri Creyden was an impressive young woman Geralt took under his wing after hiring her to the company. She came from a renowned military family, and her own record proved she wasn’t one for handouts, preferring to make a name for herself with her own merit. Geralt had wondered, briefly, why she’d resigned when she was still clearly in her prime and making her way up the ranks without a single back-slide. However, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if Renfri’s stray comments were any indicator, he could hazard a guess as to why she left - for all its improvements, the military was still very much a misogynistic ‘boys’ club’ and women were treated with less respect than they deserved. It was always a side to serving he hated; to Geralt, it was their loss whether they knew it or not, and his gain - he was just thankful she’d decided to seek them out instead of some other security firm.

“You got your head on straight, boss?” Renfri grins at Geralt as they circle each other, both waiting for the other to strike first, “or am I gonna knock you on your ass, again?”

Geralt can’t help but smirk at Renfri’s tenacity, never one to be intimidated by any man, let alone her boss and he respected her for it. She’d quickly earned her place in Geralt’s private security team alongside his other top agents, and as such trained her personally like he did her teammates. Geralt saw the training as a way to familiarize his team with each other’s tactics, but also as a way to bond; if you were going to protect a top priority client together, you needed to make sure you trusted your teammates to have your back and best intentions in mind.

“Renfri has a point, boss,” Istredd teases from the ringside, arms draped over the ropes beside Eskel and Lambert who chuckle and jeer at their brother.

“Like she hasn’t already laid _your_ ass out, Istredd,” Geralt fires back, sparing Istredd a split-second half-hearted glare, and Renfri takes that moment to strike but Geralt had expected it this time. Quickly parrying her attack he counters it with a strike of his own, but not one to be easily outdone Renfri dodges and regains the upper hand, jabbing Geralt in his side before jerking back to put space between them. They circle one another like panthers as their teammates yell and tease jovially from the sidelines.

“Kick his ass, Ren!” Cerys encourages alongside Philippa and Sabrina, the women laughing and cheering on the newest team member against their boss. His brothers and Istredd join in, and while he knows it’s all in good fun and is glad for the camaraderie, he also knows they all just like seeing Geralt land on his ass since it doesn’t happen very often.

Renfri puts up a good fight, she’s quick and light on her feet, knowing she can’t outmatch Geralt in size and strength, she uses her dexterity and his own mass against him. Her innate skill isn’t something one can teach another easily, but Renfri has clearly understood her strengths long enough to fine-tune them enough to, once again, throw Geralt down onto his ass with a scissor leg throw. He’d pretend to be annoyed if he wasn’t so impressed - and silently, thankful for the hour of respite from his thoughts.

“And Geralt is _down!”_ Philippa cackles, ducking under the ring’s ropes to come over and clap Renfri’s shoulder in congratulations after helping her up while Geralt catches his breath, _I’m getting old, damn it,_ he thinks with a huff.

“I think I threw my back out,” Geralt mumbles petulantly as he heaves himself up to stand with the help of Istredd, who immediately holds out his phone and Geralt is about to ignore whatever the young man wanted to show him until he realizes it’s a video of the moment Renfri successfully took him - and possibly made Geralt slip a disk. He did _not_ yelp _that_ loudly. That video was a lie, or Istredd was great at quickly editing in sound effects.

“Delete that,” Geralt glares at Istredd with a look that he’s been told would make lesser men weep, but of course Istredd remains unfazed (Geralt didn’t hire people who were easily intimidated, after all), the bright-eyed bastard _laughs_ instead as he claps Geralt on the back.

“Nah, but I’ll send it to you!” Istredd walks off, showing the video to the others and Geralt takes a moment to speak with Renfri.

“You did good,” Renfri grins up at Geralt, a genuine spark of pride in her brown eyes that Geralt is glad to see - that pride was well-earned. “Good enough that I wanted to ask you something, a personal favour.”

The brunette raises a brow, “what kind of favour?”

“I have two people I want to hire to the company, to our team specifically, but I need to make sure they have the right training first. Roche and Ves have been pretty good candidates so far, backgrounds and basic skills check out, but I need to know they can take instruction and hold their own.” Geralt had been thinking of a way to thank the duo since they’d helped Jaskier the night Olgierd nearly kidnapped him, and discovering their bravery came with the job of being freelance security, he saw an opportunity to give them a steady gig and they agreed. They still had to go through the paces, but Geralt had space on his team for good, trusting people, and Roche and Ves fit the bill.

“I think I heard Lambert mention them before,” Renfri notes, a look of consideration colouring her features for a moment before she nods, “why not, it’ll be a fun pet project, but I’m not gonna go easy on them Geralt, you do know that, right?”

Geralt chuckles and grins down at the woman, “and that’s exactly why I’m asking you to do it, your tough but fair and honest; I trust you to make the best decision for the team.”

Renfri may have been the newest member of Geralt’s team, but she wasn’t lacking in experience by any means, and with the look of subtle but genuine surprise in her eyes Geralt has a feeling she’d spent far too much of her life being underestimated. Renfri felt like the little sister Geralt never got to have, and knew admitting as much would probably earn him a punch to the nose, but it was a nice private thought to have. The thing about being adopted, to Geralt anyway, was that family meant more than just blood, and Geralt - albeit secretly - did consider his team a family of sorts. It was a family he and his brothers built together and one they all maintained as a unit through effort and trust. It was a warm, comforting environment to envelop and distract himself in, especially when the one person in his life whose trust he wanted most seemed like an impossibility to get - or perhaps, the right phrase would be ‘regain.’

Geralt nods one last time to Renfri before heading towards the bench to grab his duffle bag, he bids the others farewell before heading to the elevator. Normally he’d shower before heading back home, but he knew the longer he stalled the more likely he would be to put off his plan altogether; he and Jaskier needed to talk, and no matter what Geralt feared the outcome would be, it was happening today.

* * *

Not for the first time this week Geralt hesitates at his own front door, the keys hovering just shy of sliding into the lock. This conversation needs to happen, he knows, even if he hasn’t found the right words yet. Whatever the outcome may be, he’d deal with it- _they’d_ deal with it. But Geralt knew they couldn’t continue on as they have been, if they did he knew the damage would be irreparable and Geralt wouldn’t risk that. He would _not_ risk losing Jaskier just because _he_ failed to find the right words; he’d failed Jaskier enough as is. That thought steels his resolve, and with a deep breath, he finally slides the key into the front door’s lock, twisting the bolt and pushing the door open.

The house was silent, as it usually was when he returned, another new thing that has left him wrong-footed the past week; the month prior there would always be some kind of sound or commotion that greeted him when he returned home, be it Jaskier singing, the simple sounds of plates and pots clanging, or even the taps of fingers typing at a keyboard. There was always _something_ that told Geralt his house wasn’t absent of life, something he'd grown to find comfort in, but not this past week. No, this past week he’s returned to a silent house and every time it scares him to some degree, thinking that today was the day Jaskier finally had enough and left.

The fear of finding Jaskier gone doesn’t leave Geralt, not until his eyes find the young writer does the swelling panic abate; seeking out Jaskier, just to make sure he was still _there_ had become part of Geralt's routine the past week and he hated it. Hated knowing that one day he'd come home, and Jaskier would truly be _gone._ But not today, today he finds Jaskier sat on his living room couch, staring blankly at his computer screen. _I miss hearing about his story,_ Geralt finds himself thinking as he stares at the younger man for a moment, not yet noticed. Jaskier would take any opportunity to talk about the novel he was working on, and as a secret lover of the fantasy genre, Geralt enjoyed hearing about the tales Jaskier's clever mind conjured up. And maybe that was another gift from the man he didn't deserve, but maybe... _maybe that can change,_ he hopes and almost feels himself choke with it.

“I’m back,” Geralt feels the need to announce, wincing as the words struggle past the lump in his throat but come out steady enough. He watches as Jaskier takes notice of him and smiles, setting his laptop aside.

“Welcome back!” Geralt’s lips twitch at the cheerful response, closing the door behind himself but can’t fight away the renewed aching in his chest; Jaskier’s smile never reaches his eyes these days. “How was work?”

“Uneventful,” he answers simply, slipping off his gym shoes in the mudroom and turns to see Jaskier stood at the entryway, and for all that he hates the empty smile on Jaskier's face Geralt can’t help but reach out for him. He’s careful not to hug him, his own clothes still damp from his workout and training with Eskel and Renfri, but it was hard to keep away entirely when Jaskier was dressed in one of his shirts and sweatpants. The clothes drowned him, hanging loosely off his smaller frame and Geralt felt like the cliché frat boy for how much he loved it, a small possessive part of him purring at the sight while a larger part berates him for feeling pleased by the sight. _You didn't deserve it,_ it would tell him and he couldn't disagree.

“Didn’t know your job had casual Fridays,” Jaskier teases airily, tugging at the front of his damp shirt and watches Geralt with a curious look in his eyes; he was still smiling, but it was almost impressive how distrusting Jaskier’s gaze became despite it. The grin doesn't even shift in the slightest, _he'd make a great actor,_ and Geralt can't even bring himself to feel bitter at the thought. In a twisted irony, he felt a kind of awe.

“As I said, it was an uneventful day, so I ended it with a visit to the gym,” he knew he came off rude, his words a little too barbed but... _fuck_ why does Jaskier look at him this way? Like he wants to _scream_ at Geralt but chooses to smile instead. Some part of him hoped the barbed words would push him to break, to finally say what he was _really_ thinking, it had worked with Yen and he knew it was stupid to do because they were not the same person. 

“Well, I hope you got a good workout,” Jaskier’s words are pleasant on the surface but even Geralt can catch the undertone of bite in them, and for the love of everything that was good he didn’t understand _why_ that vehemence was there, to begin with. If Jaskier didn’t want him, then...then _fine_ but why does Geralt feel like the man was beginning to _hate_ him?

“I did,” the second of tension in Jaskier’s jaw tells Geralt his words hit some unseen nerve he’d never meant to prod, but the younger man just continues to smile and even throws in a chuckle for good measure, nodding as he heads back over to his laptop in the living room.

_I’d prefer him screaming at me,_ Geralt can’t help but think, _at least it would be something honest._ And today doesn’t bother to force a smile of his own as he heads upstairs to his room. He was tired of pretending like everything was alright. _Tired_ of holding his breath waiting for Jaskier to finally reject him once and for all. Because that’s what this had to be leading to, right? Jaskier knew he had Geralt, he’d said he _missed him,_ and yet this past week has been nothing but a slow, painful heartbreak. Foolishly, Geralt thought things might be okay when Jaskier had kissed him that night at the office, that while there were things they still had to work out and work _through,_ they’d be closer... _more trusting_ during it. Apparently not. His jaw begins to ache, not realizing he'd even tensed it when the thought of _this is how things ended with Yen,_ crosses his mind. He tries to shake the thought away but fails all the same.

The month following Olgierd’s assault had been hard on them both, but more so Jaskier and for good reason. So Geralt tried to do right by him; he was there for every nightmare and panic attack, every therapy session, and bout of depression. Offering his home and company to the man he loved while he was in need, and had done it all willingly - _gladly._ Jaskier needed him and Geralt wouldn't let him go through this alone. Even if he hadn't loved Jaskier as painfully deep as he did, he was still a friend, and...he _deserved_ all the good he could get, even if Geralt knew he was sorely lacking in _giving him_ that good he still tried. Even going so far as to pick up Jaskier's 'supplies.' It had been an odd moment for Geralt, standing alone in Jaskier’s bedroom staring at his ‘toys’ for his sessions with clients Jaskier had tentatively asked he pick up, and Geralt had been...oddly okay with it. He knew Jaskier’s job made him happy, knew he needed to regain control over his autonomy after that bastard had very nearly stripped him of it, and Jaskier’s happiness was all Geralt wanted. Even if, selfishly, his happiness fed into Geralt’s own. His smiles had been hard-won that month, some more strained than others, but they were _genuine._ He'd assumed he was doing well enough, doing what Jaskier needed of him, but Geralt had clearly messed up - he'd _assumed_ , again. 

_I miss his smile_ , Geralt thinks to himself as he tosses his duffle bag to the corner of the bedroom and strips, stepping under the hot spray of the shower.

Staying away from Jaskier in an intimate sense had been...well, it was hell. Geralt had wanted to hold him every time the man stood within arm’s reach; wanted to kiss him awake when he fell asleep on Geralt’s couch while reading one of his many comic books - something Geralt had endearingly learned about Jaskier since he’d moved in was that the young man was most definitely a _geek._ It was upsetting that the only times he ever really held Jaskier was after a nightmare or an attack, but Geralt couldn’t bring himself to reach out first when he didn’t know what Jaskier wanted. Jaskier flirted as easily as he breathed, but that didn’t mean _intention,_ nor was it an invitation for something more. He needed to know where he stood with Jaskier before pushing for more, and that night at the office he thought he’d finally gotten his answer, gotten what he’d silently wished for long before Olgierd ever darkened their doorstep. He'd assumed, once again, and wrongly so. As they say: _be careful what you wish for._

Geralt feels a crackled laugh rattle out of his chest, the broken sound thankfully muffled by the shower’s spray as he scrubs his hands over his heated face. If Geralt had thought the month of refraining from holding and touching Jaskier had been hell, it was nothing compared to the last week.

This past week had been wrought with tension and a painful ache Geralt _knew_ Jaskier felt too, but for the life of him couldn’t figure out _why_. Which brought him back again and _again_ to the simple fact of, _this is my fault._ What else _could_ it be? It was Geralt that threw Jaskier’s trust back in his face; _Geralt_ who treated Jaskier as a stranger in front of his own daughter - his daughter who now _adored_ Jaskier as much as he adored her - the first time they’d met; and it was _Geralt_ who refused to use his words to properly figure out what was wrong between them until it got to this point. If Geralt’s sessions with Jaskier had taught him anything, it’s that communication was key and Geralt has been shitting the damn bed in that regard. Any way he cut it, he was at fault. Geralt presses his forehead against the cool shower tiles, trying to swallow past the growing rock that threatened to choke him in his throat and he prayed to God he could _fix this._

“Please God tell me I can fix this,” Geralt whispers to the wet tiles, the hot spray scalded his back but he couldn't bring himself to care, the pain was grounding and was excuse enough for the pulsing behind his eyes.

Geralt stays under the spray longer than strictly necessary but just long enough that he finally thinks he knows where to begin with Jaskier once he exits the shower. He doesn’t linger as he gets dressed, swiping up a hoodie and sweats, towel-drying his hair enough that tying it up into a bun as he descends the stairs isn’t painful to do. Jaskier smiles when he sees him and Geralt tells himself - maybe even _lies_ to himself - that maybe Jaskier's efforts at smiling mean something; that maybe all hope _isn’t_ lost. But then again, Geralt knows what keeping up appearances for the sake of calm is like. He and Yen had done it long enough before everything finally fell apart, irreparably, and he prays he hasn't reached that point with Jaskier. Geralt seats himself across from the brunet, elbows braced on his knees as he leans forward to clasp his hands together to keep them from shaking, and takes a deep breath before meeting Jaskier’s eyes once again.

“Jaskier,” he keeps his tone carefully neutral, but still feels a painful pang behind his chest when the younger man’s smile falls all the same, “I think we should talk.”

Jaskier swallows, eyes darting away and Geralt can almost _see_ his walls rising as he closes his laptop and setting it aside before meeting his gaze once again, “yeah...I think we should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> AAHHHHHH WE HAVE FINALLY REACHED THE ENDGAME CONVERSATION!! Hopefully these two work things out, but even if they do there's still more to come and I can't wait for you all to see what! I say it all the time, but I mean it every time; thank you all SO MUCH for your kudos, comments and support for this story, it genuinely means so much to me!!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll hopefully see y'all back for the next one!! xxoxoo


	19. Uncanny Valley Pt. II: Secrets Kept (Secrets Told)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.”_  
>  ― Sylvia Plath, _The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_

Sometimes, Geralt loved his inability to speak as easily as most did.

Triss says it’s what makes Geralt so good at keeping secrets; his ‘brooding confidentiality,’ she’d called it. Despite what his counsellors growing up may have speculated, there was no underlying reason for Geralt’s silence other than he just didn’t talk much. Geralt saw and heard most of everything around him, instead - perhaps it was a tradeoff, of sorts. It was a trait he carried with him from the orphanage through to adulthood. A trait that made him a damn good soldier and even better secret keeper. But secrets went both ways, and just because Geralt never told another’s secrets didn’t mean he didn’t have any of his own. He and Eskel swore each other to secrecy at fifteen, when they’d accidentally sent their skateboards flying through Vesemir’s car windshield. Vesemir _still_ thought it was their childhood neighbours’ kid Cöen who’d trashed his car - neither boy corrected him. At sixteen Geralt and Lambert nearly set the school gym on fire; they’d planted firecrackers in Gaunter O’Dimm’s gym locker as a heroic attempt at revenge for outing Lambert‘s friend Essi to the school - a _misguided_ heroic attempt he could admit now, they should have just punched the asshole in the nose. Lambert had been the one to pull the fire alarm when Geralt failed to put out the growing fire from O’Dimm’s locker, the sprinklers drenching them while they escaped. The fire didn’t spread far and their mission to destroy O’Dimm’s custom jersey was complete, but they’d created a blood pact over some ice cream to take that little misstep to their graves. All in all, Geralt had secrets too, as silly and inconsequential as they were, like everyone. None of them _truly_ mattered, except the ones that did.

Geralt’s never told anyone he found his mother at nineteen, not Vesemir nor his brothers. Had sought out the woman who'd abandoned him though he never truly could articulate why, just that he knew he needed to. Geralt had nearly given up looking for Visenna in all honesty, had nearly fessed up to his father about his silly attempts. Then he found her. He needed to see her in-person and before he could think it through found himself halfway down the street from Visenna‘s home address, stilling when he’d seen her coming home from what he assumed was the market, struggling to juggle her groceries. Geralt had taken a step - as unsure as it was - forward to offer help; maybe she wouldn’t recognize him, and maybe... _maybe_ he could just have a moment with her, as fleeting as it would be. But then he’d heard a shriek, a child’s shriek and said child barreled from the van’s side door and into her knees, hugging Visenna fiercely. The child had a short crop of curly, flaxen hair; a little boy. Another older boy stepped out of the van, not much older than what Geralt assumed was his younger brother, the top of his head just reaching his mother’s chest; his hair was just as curly, but shown a fiery auburn in the midday light, just like Visenna‘s. 

He'd held out some childish hope, as horrible and selfish as it was, that those boys weren't hers until he'd heard the younger one loudly whine, _"momma!"_

Geralt watched, stunned and frozen in place by a feeling he could not name, watching his mother - _their_ mother - kiss their heads. A warm smile stretched across her barely aged face, a smile he only remembered aimed at him in dreams, and shoo them towards the house. Geralt had gotten back on his bike and raced all the way home. He didn’t remember the journey back, nor leaving his bike on the front lawn as he bolted inside to his bedroom. All he _could_ recall was Vesemir trying to pry the answer for why Geralt was curled up in bed, crying his heart out. Geralt didn’t know how the old man found out but was silently glad he had. He remembers not making a sound despite the blood in his ears and the lancing rawness of his throat. Vesemir had given up trying to get answers out of his crying son, instead, sitting on the bed’s edge with a large, warm hand braced on Geralt’s shoulder over the blanket he’d covered himself in. His measly attempt at shielding himself - at _hiding_ himself - from the world. They were both stubborn sods when they wanted to be.

For the first time in over a decade, Geralt recalled feeling like a helpless child all over again. Vesemir didn’t coddle him with soft sounds or kind words, it just wasn’t the kind of comfort his father gave, but his silence and gentle hand on Geralt’s shoulder never shifted as he cried for hours with no end in sight. Vesemir had sat vigil at his son’s bed until Geralt had passed out into a fitful sleep from exhaustion, and to this day it was the kindest thing anyone had done for Geralt. Geralt remembered wanting to speak to Vesemir, though; the man always seemed to know everything to his younger self, and it was a belief that never truly wavered even as he grew older. He wanted to ask why his mother had left _him_ behind but kept her other two sons; why had she never given _him_ a chance? Was it his fault? Why did _Vesemir_ choose him, when she wouldn’t? Did he _regret_ taking Geralt in? The words and questions spun around his head and lodged themselves in his throat, choking him with the amalgam of bitter emotions and fear they carried. But through it all, Geralt couldn’t find the courage to voice his queries - perhaps he was far too scared of the answers they would bring. He'd never told Vesemir why he'd broken down that day, and neither man brought it up since.

Sometimes, Geralt hated his inability to speak as easily as most did.

_“Jaskier,” he keeps his tone carefully neutral, but still feels a painful pang behind his chest when the younger man’s smile falls all the same, “I think we should talk.”_

_Jaskier swallows, eyes darting away and Geralt can almost see his walls rising as he closes his laptop and sets it aside before meeting his gaze once again, “yeah...I think we should.”_

_Okay_ , Geralt thinks as he tries forcing his hands not to tremble, _good start_. Now if he could just stick the landing...

“Do you not trust me?” The words come out before he can really think them through; before he can properly formulate them and - not for the first time in his life - wants to throttle himself for his horrid speaking skills. In terms of metaphors, Geralt pretty much landed on his fucking _neck_ , with a bitten back sigh he thinks _, so much for sticking the landing._

He couldn’t take back the words, no matter how much he wanted to; they were said and the only way through was forward. There was no more hiding, they _couldn’t_ hide anymore otherwise they would lose everything - Geralt didn’t know how or why he was sure of that fact, but he _knew_ it to be true in his very marrow. Yes, he’d verbally misstepped, but the incredulous look on Jaskier’s face seemed...well, maybe it _was_ warranted but it still stung when the man hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as he clearly warred with himself over how to reply. Trust had once been so _easy_ between them, and Geralt desperately hoped it would be again; _that’ll only be possible if you speak, as fumbling as it may be._ Jaskier shifted on the couch, his hands wringing together as he looked away and mumbled under his breath.

“What?” Geralt asks softly, the words escaping his hearing despite the oppressive silence in the room.

“Renfri,” Jaskier repeats, his voice only just strong enough for Geralt to catch the name this time. His brows furrow in confusion, what did Renfri have to do with anything?

“What about her?” This time Jaskier looks at him surprised, but then his expression shifts to barely concealed hurt and...anger like he couldn’t believe Geralt would admit to Renfri’s existence - _how_ was he messing up here? Geralt was at a loss, and that loss became all the more painful as he watched Jaskier’s expressive, almost offended gaze fall into something more defeated. If Geralt didn’t know any better, he’d say Jaskier looked close to tears- _what’s going on? What did I say? What did I miss?_

“I’m fine with it,” Jaskier’s words shake but they’re firm in their conviction, despite Geralt’s loss to their meaning, “I just...let me prove I’m better, okay? Just- just give me _time_ to prove that Geralt and I swear I _will_ , but don’t...don’t _lie_ to me anymore- I can’t...I _cannot_ handle you lying to me-”

Geralt’s furrowed brow deepen, and he knows they do because the confusion _must_ be blatantly clear on his face. He feels like he’s walked into a conversation half-way through, lost to the context and meaning of what the _hell_ Jaskier was fearfully rambling on about. And it _was_ fear that coloured Jaskier’s bright - _too_ bright - eyes. Geralt clamps down on the urge to lean forward and reach out, to cup his pallid cheek and brush away the brimming tears preemptively. But Geralt knew his touch likely wouldn’t be welcome, not when the younger man looked so small and _scared_ not...not of _Geralt_ , per se but of whatever he _thought_ was going on and to that point what the hell _was_ going on?

“Jaskier, slow down,” Geralt cuts in, unable to take the brunet’s words anymore - unable to stomach more of that...that _look_ of desperation and the _pain_ so clearly painting his words. “Who do you think Renfri is? What do you think I’m ‘lying’ about?”

Jaskier’s words die on his tongue, fading out in the silence of Geralt’s home and reaches up to scrub at his face, hiding his expression behind his hands as he whispers, “don’t make me say it.”

Geralt swallows, thick and painful, he didn’t want to _make_ Jaskier do anything he didn’t want to but...he _had_ to know, “please, Jask...please tell me what you think is going on.”

Jaskier hesitates, his hands dropping onto his lap as his mouth opens, then closes and opens again, all the while not meeting Geralt’s eyes when he finally says, “you...you’ve found someone else? You’re sleeping with her...with Renfri, right?” They weren’t questions, despite the phrasing Geralt _knew_ they were statements and... _what the hell have I done?_ was all Geralt could think.

It was worse than he’d thought, _far_ worse if Jaskier truly believed Geralt was sleeping with someone else. Jaskier _does_ believe it though, the statements were tentative but not uncertain, _he truly believes that._ However, what gave him a more painful pause was that Jaskier was _fine_ with it, or at least claimed to be. He knew the young man was far from any semblance of the ‘okay’ he claimed to be over the situation; his sadness was clear in every line of his body, in the redness of his eyes and twitching expression on his face. But why, _why_ would he claim to be okay with it, if he so clearly _wasn’t?_ Why, for the love of any _sense_ , would Jaskier subject himself to the cheater he believed Geralt to be when he could do _so much better_ if that was truly what he believed was happening? _‘Let me prove I’m better,’_ he’d said, and Geralt finally thinks he understands, as sickened as the realization makes him. Jaskier thought Geralt was cheating on him, would _leave_ him, but still wanted the chance to prove he was worth having.

How had Geralt failed Jaskier so miserably? How did he _not_ notice the road worsening to the point that leads them here, to this moment? But _how_ could Jaskier not see that in the span of a few months Geralt’s entire world rose and set on those beautiful, sturdy shoulders and blindingly bright smile? That entire being hung with _bated breath_ over every flutter of kind cornflower eyes? _This is not okay,_ Geralt internally winces, feeling a spark of sadness he knew would build to a blistering pyre and consume him if he let this go on, _none of this is anything_ close _to ‘okay.’_ Geralt longed for the silence they once shared, the calm, trusting and _comforting_ silence they used to laze through after sessions and wake up to entangled in each other’s arms. However, this? This wasn’t silence, this was oppressive _quiet_ that would be the end of them if left alive any longer; an invisible monster to be slain, lest it kills them before they can find the words to fight it.

“I’m not sleeping with Renfri, Jaskier,” Geralt says, clearly and without hesitation, adding for good measure, “or anyone else. She’s just a teammate.”

Jaskier looks at Geralt then, a strange - almost heartbreaking - mix of disbelief and _want_ to believe colouring his soft features, “please...don’t lie to me, Geralt.” His voice was tentative, despite the hope in his eyes Geralt could hear the hesitance in his voice. “I saw her text, that night in your office- I didn’t mean to. I thought it might be important. You’d left your phone in your desk drawer, she’d called then texted and...I saw it. I know I shouldn’t have but I _did,_ and...and I know you go to see her, you went today, didn’t you?”

Again, not a question but a statement, and Geralt feels out of depth for a moment. Jaskier had thought Geralt was sleeping with someone else - with _Renfri -_ and Geralt didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or scream because right then the realization hits him: Jaskier had come on to him _while believing I was sleeping with someone else_. The knowledge coloured Geralt’s insides sickeningly but gave context and explanation for why Jaskier has been so desperate and upset that night. Why he’d closed off so quickly after. It gave an answer to why Jaskier looked so distrusting of him recently, and why he looked so _broken_ now. It answered so much of what left Geralt at a loss recently, and even answered the question Jaskier had cleverly spoken his way around: _do you not trust me?_ Clearly not. However, this fallacy he could correct, _this_ misunderstanding he could clear up.

“Jas, Renfri is a teammate of mine,” Geralt repeats slowly, trying to be careful but clear with his words - to _think them through_ this time. “I’ve been training her recently since she’s new to my team.” Jaskier looks unconvinced, but he doesn't interrupt, so maybe there was a chance here. Geralt tries thinking of a way to convince him of the truth of his claims when he remembers what Istredd had sent him and pulls out his phone, going to his messages and handing his the device to Jaskier who takes it with a confused expression.

“I train my team personally, every single one of them, to make sure they’re up to par to work with the clients we do,” Geralt continues, watching as Jaskier taps the screen and listens to the familiar sounds of Renfri kicking his ass that morning at the gym. “Renfri’s our newest member so I’ve been working with her recently, but our relationship is strictly professional. I promise you, on everything I hold dear, I am not lying.”

Geralt watches Jaskier view the video, despite the volume of camaraderie and banter, Jaskier barely smiles. _I miss his smiles,_ Geralt thinks. Jaskier was always so quick to smile, prone to it even if second hand, but not recently. Jaskier doesn’t hand back the phone until the video is over, but the small uptick at the corner of his lips gives Geralt some semblance of hope that all wasn’t lost. _Not yet, anyway,_ a cynical, brokenhearted part of him thinks, but he ignores it. He’d fight tooth and nail for Jaskier, and that began with Jaskier _knowing_ he would.

“You can look through my phone if it’ll make you feel better,” he continues, but Jaskier shakes his head handing the device back, though Geralt sets it on the table. “I haven’t slept with anyone, not since we met. I...I’m bad with words, Jask, but for you I want- I _need_ to try so...please let me just say what I need to, and...and if it's not enough I'll understand, okay?”

Jaskier looks a little surprised, just for a moment but remains silent and nods, his expression becoming unreadable and Geralt thinks maybe that’s for the better. He looks down to his hands, hung between his knees as he inhales deep and, finally, _finally_ speaks.

“Jaskier, I love you,” it was the easiest place to start, and if you’d told Geralt of a few months ago he’d find proclaiming his affections an easy place to start, he’d laugh in your face. _Yet here we are._ “I want to say it was one, big moment that made me realize it, but it wasn’t it was just... _you._ Your laugh, your smile, how you...you’re always considerate of others without compromising yourself, and how despite everything your life has thrown at you you’re one of the most genuine people I’ve ever met. I love you, Jaskier, but I also miss you. You said you missed me, that night at the office and this past week I felt...lost like you were there but not and...I just didn’t know what to do."

Geralt's breath shakes, but he's started and for the first time in his life doesn't find himself wanting to stop talking. So he doesn't. He looks up at Jaskier and continues.

“I was always told I was shit at talking, and I _am_...I’m going in fucking circles here, Jaskier, but I _don’t know what to say._ The fact you thought I was cheating on you didn’t hurt half as bad as knowing you made yourself _okay_ with it when you deserve so, _so_ much fucking better. I...I want to blame that bastard for all this, but I know...fuck- Jaskier I _know_ this is all my fault- no, let me finish, _please_ ,” Geralt runs a hand through his hair but doesn't look away from the man before him, _no more running away._

“I caused all this...this downward spiralling the moment I decided to hide you that morning at the diner. I want to say I knew what I was doing, that I wasn’t ready but...I was just fucking scared, Jas. I didn’t know what we were, back then, all I _did_ know was I wanted far more than I thought you’d give and it would scare you away. That I'd lose you. That you’d dismiss me as another overeager client who got ahead of themselves and...I didn’t want to risk that- didn’t want to risk losing you so I freaked out like a fucking _moron_ and I ended up hurting you anyway, nearly _losing_ you anyway. I made you feel unwanted, like a secret and that is _nothing_ close to what you are to me, and I’m _sorry_ I hurt you like that, Jaskier.”

Geralt thought there should be more to say but he couldn’t think of anything else, not when his heart was trying to claw its way out of his throat. His hands shook and it was only then he'd realized he'd stopped looking at Jaskier somewhere along the way, had shifted his gaze to the floor, feeling panicked when he realized the world around him was blurring at the edges. Was he going to pass out? Why does he feel so panicked and shaky, like he was breathing too much and not enough all at once? _Fuck, I fucked up, I should have said that better...why isn’t he saying anything? I messed up, fuckfuckFUCK-_

“Can I speak?” The question wasn’t patronizing or angered, but gentle and genuinely asking if Geralt had said his peace. Geralt nodded, not trusting his voice right then even though the whole _point_ of this was to use _words,_ but Geralt had spoken more at that moment than he had in a whole fucking _year_ and he _still_ managed to fuck it up and- a hand touches Geralt’s cheek, gently urging him to look up.

Jaskier stands tall in front of him, his expression sad but...not? There were tears in his eyes, but they were clear and almost happy. _Relieved,_ he thinks. Jaskier lowers himself to sit beside Geralt, never removing his hand from his face. Cerulean eyes search for something in Geralt’s hazel. He feels small at that moment, exposed in a way he'd never felt before but Jaskier must find what he was looking for all the same; his tentative smile widens.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt’s lips part to speak but Jaskier shakes his head, though it’s just as well because the words felt caught in his throat. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” Jaskier leans forward, shifting to his knees on the couch and presses a gentle kiss to Geralt’s cheek, “I’m sorry I got into my own head and thought the worst of you.” He presses a kiss to Geralt’s temple, “I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you sooner,” a kiss to the corner of his mouth, “and I’m sorry that it all might happen again in future because you’re too good for me Geralt- no, let me speak, please. You said I deserved better, well I think the same, but for _you_. You’ve been a gift in my life the moment you walked into my apartment and I genuinely find it hard to believe you haven’t found me lacking yet. Old insecurities don’t die easy deaths, but I _promise_ you I’ll do everything I can so that it doesn't come to this again. I promise I’ll do everything I can to believe what you say...and believe you when you say that you’ll stay. But Geralt?”

Geralt turns more fully to face Jaskier, twisting his body just enough to face the man properly, and winces when his voice sounds a little worse for wear, “yes?”

“Promise me you’ll remind me because I’m neurotic and insecure and...I feel too much for you to actually believe you feel the same...” his voice cracks halfway through his confession, and Geralt's hands twitch to reach out for him, his skin itching with it. Geralt’s eyes search Jaskier’s this time, and finds his expression as sincere as it had ever been, as _vulnerable_ as it’s ever been. He notices the dodge all the same though, the clever talk-around the words Geralt had so readily used but...strangely, Geralt didn’t think he minded.

“I love you, Jaskier,” and Geralt reaches out this time, heavy hand laying gently against the juncture of Jaskier’s jaw, his thumb stroking at the man’s cheek, “I don’t think I know how not to anymore.”

“I...Geralt, I-“ Geralt watches Jaskier struggle for a moment, _sees_ that the man wants to say the words back, his hesitation is clear but once again Geralt doesn’t find himself upset by it. He knew Jaskier cared, _knew_ he loved him even if the younger man wasn’t ready to say it, and he could live with that. He'd remind Jaskier he loved him until he was ready to say the same.

“Don’t say it if you aren’t ready to,” Geralt cuts in, hand slowly moving to the back of Jaskier’s head, gently gripping his soft locks. “I can say it because all I ever do in life is show how I feel...but for you, I _want_ you to _hear_ it, too. I'll say it enough for both of us, but I know how you feel, Jask, and that’s enough.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt for a moment, wide-eyed and... _damn it_ , he hadn’t meant to make the man cry. But Jaskier presses a slow, gentle kiss to Geralt’s lips, lingering just a breath away as he speaks, “I’ve done nothing but blather my way through life, so...let me show you how I feel, so when I say it-“ Geralt lingers on the fact he said ‘when’ not ‘if’ and doesn’t bother hiding the smile he feels tugging at his lips, “- you’ll know I mean it with all my heart...all my soul. Can you do that for me, Geralt?”

“I’d do anything for you, Jaskier,” Geralt closes the space between them, pulling back just enough to mumble, “but I think you know that.”

Jaskier chuckles, soft and sweet against Geralt lips, his tongue teasing at the seam of the older man’s mouth and Geralt doesn’t hesitate to open for him. Jaskier moans and it’s a soft, delicate thing as he shifts, moving to straddle Geralt’s thighs. Geralt wraps his free arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding his securely and closely. The slow rock of Jaskier’s hips was unhurried and comfortable, unlike the frantic urgency of their night together in Geralt’s office. After so much time, Geralt thought he’d need to know how Jaskier felt, need to _hear_ how he felt but...Geralt was never really a man for words, all his life actions were what mattered to him and Jaskier’s actions were proof enough for him. He could wait to hear the words because it meant Jaskier would stay long enough to say them.

Jaskier gently grips Geralt’s shirt at the shoulder’s, curling them in his fists as the kiss turns heavy, filling with intent and Geralt feels his heart batter in his chest. The hand in Jaskier’s hair tightens ever so slightly, pulling a long, deep moan from the man above him and Geralt bucks his hips in a gentle upwards roll as Jaskier meets him with a downward rut of his own. Jaskier was here to stay, and Geralt was in this for the long-haul; they finally, _finally_ knew where they stood with each other, and found that it was side-by-side.

“ _Geralt,”_ Jaskier breaks the kiss to gasp his name against the older man’s wet, kiss reddened lips, “I need you...it’s been so fucking long. I _need_ you, Geralt. My skin...it feels too _tight_ and my fucking bones _itch_ ,” Jaskier chuckles at that, burying his face into the flushed crook of Geralt’s neck. “I think I finally understand addicts.”

Geralt hums, the hand in Jaskier’s hair not loosening, but the hand around his waist rubs soothing lines along his back, “I need you too, Jask...fuck I need you so bad.”

“What do you want, right now, Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice dips a register lower, lips mouth kissing and nipping along the side of Geralt’s neck, “tell me what you want.”

“Blessed silence,” the answer is instinctual, honest and without thought. Jaskier pulls back enough to point a raised brow at Geralt, and the older man feels himself flush, _words,_ he reminds himself, _he needs words,_ “the silence and calm we shared, before all this. When words were done and actions were enough...when I could hear only pin-drops and your gasps and moans.”

Jaskier’s confused expression clears and his smile widens into a warm, sultry one, and Geralt wonders how someone could make such genuine happiness look so seductive, “what a coincidence...I want that too.”

Jaskier’s hand reaches down and gently wraps around Geralt’s wrist, moving his hand from his waist to his chest and up, _up_ until slowing and stopping at his throat. Jaskier rests his hand atop Geralt’s, his slender, uncalloused fingers pressing Geralt’s down to wrap around his throat. Geralt stares at their entwined fingers in slight confusion until he freezes when he _gets_ what Jaskier means, and feels his cock pulse in his pants. Swallowing, Geralt tears his eyes away from their joined hands and meets Jaskier’s darkened gaze, his eyes helpless but to flit from heated stare to the way his plush lower lip is caught between his teeth and back.

“Take me upstairs...” Jaskier’s hand tighten’s Geralt’s around his throat just the barest bit more, his mouth falling open in a soft, silent gasp but never breaks away from Geralt’s gaze, “...and fuck me senseless, Geralt.”

Geralt’s jaw goes taught, his eyes drawing back down to how perfect his hand looks wrapped around Jaskier’s delicate, flushed throat, “are you sure?” His voice is wrecked, deep and raspy; they hadn’t done more than kiss. Yet.

“Let me show you how I feel for you,” Jaskier leans forward, his hand still atop Geralt’s and forcing him to struggle a bit to get closer, to _breathe_ and flushes so sweetly for it. He smiles, no, _grins_ like a sly kitten as he noses along Geralt’s cheekbone, “how good I can make the silence feel again, please, Sir?”

Geralt knew he never really stood a chance against Jaskier, and the brat knew it too with the way he grins, blindly bright and just as smug when Geralt shoots up off the couch. Jaskier laughs, bright and breathless as Geralt carries him like a caveman up the stairs. He laughs all the way to his- no, to _their_ bedroom, and Geralt can’t help but smile, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and once again thank you all SO MUCH for coming on this insane angsty journey with me! There’s still more ahead, and even with uni and my job starting up I’ll do my damndest to keep updating weekly and see this story through to the end! I hope you enjoyed and genuinely hope to hear from you and see you back next chapter!! xxoxoo
> 
> Fun factoid about the creation of this chapter:  
> I don’t ever really plan out my chapters, I tend to have an outline and certain things I know I want to happen before the chapter’s over but most times the characters create themselves and do the rest. This time was much the same, I knew what I wanted to achieve and where I wanted the chapter to point, but I couldn’t find a good starting point for it that wouldn’t be (to me) just a continuation of the last chapter but an actual second part to it. The beginning you read above literally clicked in my head at 4:20AM when I was half asleep, I jolted out of bed and started typing the idea into my notes before I lost it, my hand ‘slipped’ so to speak with the topic...and then I promptly passed out. The next day I read through what the hell I wrote (I genuinely didn’t even remember half of it, all I did remember was thinking ‘oh I’m bastard’), and after cringing through enough typos and grammatical errors to make every writer ever - dead and alive - turn in their graves, all I could think was ‘this is...actually kinda perfect,‘ and immediately concluded, ‘holy hell am I a bastard,’ right before scrambling to my keyboard to get this chapter out to y’all.


	20. The Hunter and the Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“We would not be Human if we did not prefer to be the devourers rather than the devoured, but either is a blessing.”_  
>  ― Margaret Atwood, _The Year of the Flood_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the end of the last chapter wasn’t forewarning enough, then here’s your heads up to smut ahead! Haha! Enjoy!! xxoxoo

Throughout Geralt’s life, he’s always been seen as a ‘predator’ of sorts. A man out for the chase; the _hunt._ His imposing stature alone was enough to intimidate most; his closed-off expression another reason many steered clear of him, and for those that weren’t easily driven away by the former or latter, Geralt never made threats he couldn’t see through. But he’d never enjoyed it, after all, who would? Yen had been the exception to the rule, but no one in their right mind would think Yen _could_ be hunted. She was just as much a ‘hunter’ as many claimed he was.

“ _Geralt.”_

He still recalled the time Vesemir had taken them hunting during the summer after their freshman of high school. Lambert had been excited while Eskel had been wary, but Geralt had felt indifferent until it came down to the actual act itself. He’d caught a fawn in the crosshairs of his rifle, it was small, spry and smattered with white spots on its golden brown pelt. It was beautiful. Clueless to the danger watching it. Innocent. Geralt couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger and watched as the fawn eventually bumbled away through the brush. He still remembered those wide, blue eyes with a clarity that made him ache some days. Absently, he’d catch himself wondering if it still roamed the forest surrounding Vesemir’s cabin. He hoped it did.

‘Hunter’ and ’hunted’...that’s what the world came down to, or so many people claimed. But for once, Geralt won’t begrudge the barbaric thought. Not when, for the first time in his life, Geralt finally enjoyed being the hunter so many believed him to be.

“ _Geralt!”_ Jaskier gasps beneath him, fists twisting in the sheets above his head. His back arches deliciously up off the bed, pressing against where Geralt’s mouth laves and nips at his chest, but doesn’t dare remove his grip; Geralt had told him to keep his hands pinned to the bed above his head, not to move them until Geralt told him to, and Jaskier was never one to easily disobey.

Jaskier’s face is gorgeously flushed, neck painted a lovely, delicate pink down to the tops of his nipples that Geralt is on a mission to bruise in the best ways possible. The sensitive skin wrinkles each time he moves his mouth away from one to play with the other, hardening with help of his saliva and the room’s cool air, knowing the flushed flesh is more tender than the last time he’d laved at it. Geralt’s gaze flicks up to watch Jaskier’s writhing and he’s beautiful like this, a vision Geralt - despite his tenuous, grappling hopes - never thought he’d see again. A prey caught by a predator, happily devoured. Geralt thinks that’s the difference between Jaskier and all the others that ever saw Geralt as a predatory hunter; Jaskier played at being prey but the look in his crystalline irises, near-invisible rings around his blown pupils were as predatory as they came. The look alone sent a thrill down Geralt’s spine, the sounds he made makes him shiver, his cock twitching in his sweatpants.

Geralt’s right-hand pinches Jaskier’s nipple a little too harshly, making the man yelp and jerk off the bed, head-turning to bury his face in his shoulder, muffling a long, drawn-out moan. _That won’t do,_ Geralt thinks, his left-hand moves from holding Jaskier’s bare hip still up to encircle his neck and giving the heated, flushed skin a warning squeeze.

“What did I say about noise?” Geralt rasps, the low, sultry register of his own voice almost a surprise to hear - though Jaskier did bring surprising aspects out of Geralt as easily as breathing.

Jaskier turns his face away from his shoulder, darkened eyes meeting Geralt’s as he gently presses against Geralt’s hold, “you want to hear it...all of it.”

Geralt slowly, methodically licks, bites and kisses his way up Jaskier’s chest and neck, taking his time before pausing to hover his ear to whisper, “and what did you do?”

Jaskier doesn’t answer for a moment and Geralt’s hand tightens around his neck, not enough to halt his breathing, but another warning, a silent prod. “I muffled myself, Sir.”

The older man hums, pressing a lingering kiss to the skin just below Jaskier’s earlobe, his grip easing, “and what do you think should be done for that, Jas?” He feels Jaskier’s adam’s apple move against his palm as the man swallows, watching from the corner of his eye as a skilled pink tongue darts out to wet his parted lips while Geralt noses at his jaw.

“Punish me, Sir,” Jaskier whispers, voice wrecked with lust and pure _want,_ and Geralt’s heart thumps a little heavier at the thought of punishment. He wonders, for a moment how lovely Jaskier would look laid across his lap, bottom blooming redder and redder with each spank, _another time._

They weren’t there, at least Geralt didn’t feel like they were. Not yet, anyway. But for now, he had another idea for getting Jaskier to listen to his commands, something just punishing enough that the younger man might struggle to see it through. But Geralt _wants_ to see that struggle, witness how hard Jaskier would work to _not_ disobey again. Geralt shifts, laying between Jaskier’s naked legs and presses down onto the man beneath him. Lazily, he ruts his hips against the brunet's naked cock. There was something about being dressed while Jaskier laid sprawled out and bare beneath Geralt that made his head spin, a hindbrain satisfaction of dominance in an otherwise mundane and impractical situation. Yes, he wanted to feel Jaskier’s skin pressed against his own, didn’t like the disconnect that the clothes between them forced, but all the while Geralt enjoyed the small power trip Jaskier’s willing vulnerability gave him.

“What’s your safe word, Jaskier?” Geralt asks mouth a whisper away from Jaskier’s lips, watching the man worry at his lower lip with a spark in his gaze.

“Chameleon,” he answers without hesitation meeting Geralt’s gaze head-on, an excited quirk pulling at the corners of his lips. Geralt feels a pooling warmth low in his gut at the anticipation and the _joy_ in his gaze. He’d missed the sight of it after going so long without seeing it. “Yours?”

“Roach,” Geralt replies, eyes searching until Jaskier gives a small nod and Geralt dips down to kiss Jaskier, slow and hungry.

His hand moves from the younger man’s neck and down his chest, lingering to give his pert left nipple a gentle, teasing pinch before ghosting down his torso, stomach and finally curling around Jaskier’s straining length. Jaskier moans into their kiss but doesn’t reach out to fist at Geralt's hair like he normally does, though Geralt can almost hear the bedsheets twisting taut in his grip above his head. Geralt gently strokes Jaskier’s flushed cock, it's hot to the touch, and pulses desperately in Geralt’s loose grip. He knows the friction isn’t near enough to get Jaskier off, and that the teasing is driving his submissive insane beneath him with the way Jaskier whines despite sucking at Geralt’s tongue. But this was a punishment, and punishments were _meant_ to draw out the promise of desperate pleasure, make that release hard-won once it was finally achieved, and Geralt wasn’t anywhere _near_ done with Jaskier.

“You may release the sheet to roll over,” Geralt begins once breaking the kiss, drinking in Jaskier’s excited and curious expression, “and spread your knees.”

Geralt lifts himself off Jaskier and then off the bed completely, Jaskier whines at the loss for a moment and watches him for a before following Geralt’s commands. Rolling over, Jaskier pushes up onto his hands and knees on Geralt’s bed - _their bed,_ he notes with a silent fondness and warmth blooming in his chest. Geralt watches him for a moment longer, taking in the site of Jaskier’s skin glowing gold under the slits of sunlight that pass through Geralt’s bedroom curtains, highlighting strips of supple skin and the taut muscles beneath. Jaskier was a living work of art to Geralt, stunning in a way that almost seemed ethereal, especially like this; exposed and yet trusting of Geralt’s intentions towards him. He knew there was a long road ahead of them, but for the first time in months, he was looking _forward_ to their steps forward, knowing they’d be walking together. Side by side. It was a fact that still made Geralt’s head spin a little at the knowledge like he was in a dream and dreaded waking up. He silently wanted to pinch himself, just to be sure.

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls out, voice soft but tinged in subtle concern, and _that won’t do,_ Geralt thinks as he strips off his hoodie and sweatpants, tossing them to the side without taking his eyes off Jaskier.

"I'm here, love," Geralt answers as he moves to kneel on the bed, voice quiet enough not to break the spell between them.

Geralt leans over Jaskier and reaches out to stroke a hand through his thick mane, gripping the top of Jaskier’s hair and pulling back enough to make the man strain to arch his neck. Geralt kisses Jaskier’s shoulder, a gentle juxtaposition to his unrelenting grip in the younger man’s hair, relishing in the feel of Jaskier’s bare back and pert ass pressed flush against his nude front; his stiff cock nestled comfortably between Jaskier’s asscheeks.

“You’re going to stay just like this while I use you to get off,” Geralt says, an air of nonchalance to his tone despite it’s deep, rough register, “you’re not to move but you _will_ speak, not hold back a single thought or sound...when I’m finished, all you need to do ask permission and you may cum, is that understood?”

Jaskier chuckles softly, more than a little breathless as he teases, “that doesn’t seem like much of a punishment, Sir.”

Geralt grins, knowing Jaskier can’t see his expression but he wouldn’t argue against the younger man’s confidence. For once, Geralt’s sure silence would be acceptable, and his actions more clear than his words could be at this moment. Reaching forward Geralt pulls open the bedside drawer, retrieving a bottle of lube and the little excited wriggle of Jaskier’s hips tells the older man what he _thinks_ is about to happen. Geralt can’t help but smirk, he feels like a devious little shit, but he’s okay with the childish expression as Jaskier faces forward unable to see it. If Geralt was being honest with himself, this ‘punishment’ has always been something Geralt wanted to try, but never felt comfortable enough with a partner before now.

“Remember Jaskier, you cum before I do and this is all over, understood?” Geralt reaffirms, just because he can, grinning wider when Jaskier confidently replies that _yes_ he does sounding impatient and bratty and Geralt secretly _loves_ it.

Geralt settles behind Jaskier and pops open the bottle's cap, pouring a generous dollop onto his palm and warms the viscous gel for a moment before lathering lube in slow, teasing strokes along his cock. He moans softly, and can almost _see_ the moment Jaskier registers things weren’t going in the direction he’d thought. Though Geralt doesn’t let that confusion linger too long and leans forward, running the flat of his tongue along Jaskier’s furled hole.

“ _FUCK!”_ Jaskier jerks forward in surprise but Geralt is quicker, using his other hand to grip his thigh and hold him steady.

“Be still,” he placates, like soothing a startled horse before leaning forward again to lick and nip as Jaskier’s entrance, listening for the man’s reactions. Though Geralt doesn’t have to strain to do so, Jaskier’s more vocal than he’s ever been.

"Geralt- I... _oh shit, yes that-_ don't stop." Geralt hums but doesn’t speak, instead slowly stroking himself as he works at Jaskier’s entrance, curious to see how many new sounds he can draw out from the man. It turns out the answer is _many_. It’s as much a power trip as it is an ego boost. Geralt was excited to try this but worried he’d be mediocre at best, but if Jaskier’s reactions were anything to go by Geralt was faring better than he’d thought.

“Oh _God,_ Geralt, your _mouth,”_ Jaskier mewls, moans and whimpers wrenching themselves from his throat as he’s clearly torn between leaning into Geralt’s mouth and pulling away from it, and Geralt can hazard a guess as to why.

Geralt’s own strokes on his cock remain slow, lazy and drawn out, wanting to take his time until Jaskier’s melted into an incoherent puddle; this _was_ a punishment, after all. Geralt takes his pleasure from the sounds Jaskier makes, the twitching, stuttering movements of his body he may not even be aware of making, and the warm heat of his skin where Geralt touches. Geralt gently strokes at Jaskier’s hip before bringing his hand up to pull his cheek to the side, spreading him wider for Geralt to have more space to work. It’s as Geralt’s tongue breaches his entrance that Jaskier nearly screams, back arching as his thighs tremble and the sound alone is nearly enough to bring Geralt to release. _Not yet,_ he thinks and slowly eases his thumb into Jaskier, working the digit alongside his tongue.

“Geralt, fuck this isn’t _fair!”_ Jaskier cries out, but despite his desperate tone, Geralt thinks the man would scream if he stops, so he doesn’t. Instead, he works his fist over himself faster, matching the pace with his darting tongue as it fucks in and out of Jaskier. “Geralt please, _please,_ I...I need _more,_ please- _ohfuckinghshit!”_

Geralt had reached for Jaskier’s weeping cock, hanging stiff and dribbling between his trembling thighs and starts up a slow rhythm, fucking his tongue into him and every downward stroke. Jaskier's hips stutter between thrusting into Geralt's fist and fucking himself on his tongue. Jaskier's indecision between pleasure and trying to hold himself together is a thrilling site for Geralt. His own hand speeds up despite the slow, almost careless pace he’s using on Jaskier. Sure, this was a punishment, but Geralt wasn’t _cruel..._ though that didn’t mean he wouldn’t drag things out for as long as possible.

“I’m sorry I didn’t- _oh God yes like that, don’t stop-_ didn’t listen, Sir, I promise to do better but _please_ can I cum? Please!” Geralt gently, carefully tightens his hold on the base of Jaskier’s cock, abating his need to spiral though his mouth continues to work for a few moments longer before he pulls back, breathing a little heavier now.

“What did I say, Jas?” Geralt grunts, the hand on his cock working faster, the sound almost as obscene as when he ate Jaskier out. “ _Tell me.”_

“N-Not to cum until after- o _oh fuck..._ a-after you do,” Jaskier’s reply is breathless, each word almost panted out as his hips twitch, his thighs shaking with visible effort to hold himself together, to _obey_ and Geralt feels something...begin to twist in his chest at the site.

It’s not... _bad,_ but he almost feels full with it. The fact that Jaskier is trying _so hard_ to follow Geralt’s commands; his skin flushed pink with a sheen of sweat from his efforts, his whole body trembling in varying degrees to hold himself together like he’s using his _entire_ _being_ to clutch onto his withering self-control. It’s what Geralt had been aiming for, to bring Jaskier to the end of his rope and keep him there for as long as possible, but...he didn’t think the site of it would hit him so suddenly - so _hard._ Geralt almost feels gobsmacked by it, like a string in him suddenly pulled tight, ready to snap and he moves on instinct. Gently he nudges Jaskier to the side, the man easily rolls onto his back, legs splayed wide and Geralt moves in between his legs, stroking himself fast and dirty until he spills onto Jaskier’s abdomen with a guttural groan that almost doesn’t even _sound_ like him - like it’s being ripped from Geralt, but somehow _not_ him all at once.

“Geralt-” Jaskier moans when Geralt reaches forward, smearing his release against Jaskier’s skin like a brand, his cock twitching at the thought, but he doesn’t linger. _Can’t_ linger, he isn’t done.

Ducking forward Geralt doesn’t hesitate to take Jaskier’s flushed, stiff cock into his mouth. The velvet feel of it against his tongue is dizzying, the musky smell and sharp tang of pre-cum almost overwhelming in the best of ways. The string in him pulls tighter, sharpening his senses almost to the point of overwhelming him but the feeling of Jaskier on his tongue, his gentle ruts up into Geralt’s mouth, and wanton moans anchor him despite the disconnect he feels. Geralt thinks it’s almost similar to the disconnect he felt in battle, moving on pure adrenaline and instinct. Though it isn’t fear for survival that drives him this time, instead it's a want - a _need -_ to bring Jaskier to bliss. To bring him over the edge and be there to catch him, to comfort and...and _love_ him through it.

“ _Geralt, I- oh fuck..._ you feel _amazing,_ dearheart, I... _fuck,”_ Jaskier moans, loud and unabashed, hands coming to stroke through Geralt’s damp hair. Another anchor to hold on to.

“G-Geralt I...please may I cum?” Jaskier rasps, rushed and desperate despite his stuttering and Geralt pulls off his cock just long enough to say _yes,_ and before he can get his mouth back on Jaskier's cock he feels thick ropes of his release painting his mouth, tongue and jaw.

Geralt sits back on his heels but doesn’t lift himself up, not yet. He rests his forehead against Jaskier’s hip, gently wringing out the last of the younger man’s orgasm, and licks the head of his cock when Jaskier twitches before releasing his waning prick. Geralt’s skin almost prickles at how the air in the room caresses his skin. Lifting himself, he looks at the beautiful wreck he’d reduced Jaskier to and feels his heart thump in his chest, the string finally, _finally_ snapping and Geralt feels like a puppet gracelessly falling onto the mattress beside Jaskier. He doesn’t think as he reaches out for the brunet, pulling him into his arms despite the mess they’d made of each other, but knowing that he needed to hold him; _needed_ Jaskier to ground him until whatever this was passed. It felt like a high, like walking a tightrope between an unknown abyss and oblivion, but holding Jaskier Geralt knew if he fell he’d be okay either way he tumbled.

He can’t stop picturing it, picturing Jaskier in his mind’s eye, body taut and straining as he held himself back - held himself _together -_ _for Geralt._ He’d tried _so hard_ to please Geralt and by the Gods he _did;_ Geralt didn’t think he could even begin to find the words at how gorgeous Jaskier looked in that moment, his only regret was being unable to see the brunet’s face until he'd rolled over. Though when he turned him over, when he _did_ see that strained and flushed expression, Jaskier’s brows furrowed and mouth hung open in a soundless moan and panted; when he _called out_ for Geralt, by God it was everything Geralt never knew he wanted- never knew he _needed_ until right at that moment _. He’s perfect...fuck, love him so much._ He holds Jaskier’s pliant form a little tighter at the thought, and wonders, absently, if he’ll ever be willing to let the man go.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is sleep-warm, a little groggy and it pulls Geralt from his thoughts easily, but not abruptly. However, it’s only then that he notices the sun had begun to set, and looking down at Jaskier’s lazy smile realizes the man must have napped without Geralt even realizing.

_Where had the time gone?_ he wonders, reaching up to stroke a thumb over Jaskier’s cheek, _it feels like it’s only been a few minutes._

“I thought I lost you there, for a moment,” Jaskier comments, though he doesn’t sound worried, more...awed if anything, which Geralt finds strange - Geralt wasn’t a very ‘awe’ inspiring person.

“Lost me?” He asks, still feeling that strange, comfortable haze lingering around him, and knows if he lets himself he’d be able to slip back into it. But Geralt didn’t want to look away from Jaskier, not when the man looked so relaxed, so happy and _content_ in his arms. He didn't want to miss a moment of this.

Jaskier reaches up, placing a gentle hand on Geralt’s cheek and winces a little when he chuckles softly, and belatedly Geralt remembers he’d cum on his face - the thought doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. If at all, in all honesty.

“You don’t realize what just happened, do you?” Jaskier asks, though his tone isn’t patronizing nor put-off, but fond, maybe? Geralt feels like shaking his head, trying to clear his mind of the remnants of the haze that had enveloped him; words felt a little harder to grasp at the moment. “You just experienced Dom-space, love.“

“'Dom-space'?” Geralt felt a little foolish, repeating Jaskier’s statements as questions, but he genuinely didn’t understand what the younger man was saying.

“It’s a Dominants’ equivalent to sub-space,” Jaskier explains, his hand still warm against Geralt’s jaw, stroking at his cheek, almost a mirror of Geralt’s own ministrations on his face, “I...I should have better prepared you for the possibility of it happening, but I didn’t think it honestly would and with everything that had been going on- Anyway, Dominants experience it during sessions, just like a submissive can experience sub-space if the Scene and conditions are just right...I honestly don’t know what triggered it for you, and it sounds selfish but...I’m glad? I just-”

“You tried so hard,” Geralt interrupts, knowing it was rude but unable to help himself when Jaskier began to look so unsure of himself, and Geralt did _not_ want Jaskier to be unsure of anything while he held him. Jaskier looks up at Geralt, raising a brow instead of speaking, “you said if the ‘conditions’ of the Scene were just right and...I felt it when I saw you trying to obey my command to hold off. Jask, you were trying _so hard,_ I could _see_ it and...and you looked fucking perfect right then. I wish I could have seen your face, but... _fuck,_ Jask, I felt everything come together right then like my body just _knew_ what to do. Everything intensified, too much and not enough while somehow being perfect...is that what it’s like for you? When you drop?”

Jaskier hums, curling a little closer against Geralt as he moves his hand to rest against Geralt’s chest, drawing invisible patterns on his skin, “sort of, but it’s more that I know if I fall, you’ll catch me, so I just...float, in a way. Everything - like you said - is too much and not enough, but it doesn’t scare me- actually, it’s kind of terrifying but in a _thrilling_ way, y’know? Like a rollercoaster. I know that no matter what happens, good or bad, you’ll be there to catch me...I feel safe.”

Geralt feels a lump in his throat and swallows, though this time unlike so many others, Geralt moves his hand to gently tip Jaskier’s chin up and kisses him soundly. The kiss was long, lazy but tender in a way it never _really_ could be between them with their unknown feelings, but now...now things were different.

“I love you, Jaskier, and I'll always catch you,” Geralt whispers against the younger man’s lips, kissing him again before gently pulling away. “We should shower and then I’ll make us dinner, how does that sound?”

Jaskier stares up at Geralt for a moment, a sort of silent contemplation on his relaxed face before he smiles, “fine, but only if we have ice cream after. Deal?”

Geralt chuckles, ducking down to steal another kiss just because he _can_ and doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile this time, “deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for sticking with this story thus far, I know the premise of this story was about Geralt and Jaskier exploring Domination and submission, but the plot went ahead and breathed a life of its own which I’m so happy to know you’ve all enjoyed so far! There’s still some road left ahead of these two lovable morons, but hopefully, it’ll be far smoother (and sexier!) from here on out! I’m excited to explore their dynamic and relationship, and I hope y’all are too!
> 
> Also, also I just wanted to let y’all know that with uni (and a possible job, fingers crossed on that bit!) beginning, I’ll be doing my best to update weekly, but the updates will likely be posted Fridays-Sundays, from here on out! I know my posting schedule has been a bit random thus far, but I’m aiming to keep it to those days despite all the craziness going on. That said, thank you all again SO MUCH for your kudos, comments and support on this story, I’m genuinely in awe and humbled by your lovely comments, and hearing from y’all makes my day! I hope to see you in the next chapter!! xxoxoo


	21. To Think an Impossible Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Family isn’t something that’s supposed to be static, or set. People marry in, divorce out. They’re born, they die. It’s always evolving, turning into something else.”_  
>  ― Sarah Dessen, _Lock and Key_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> I’m so sorry about not updating last week, I was swamped with uni assignments UGH Ლ(ಠ益ಠᲚ)  
> Anyhoo, I hope you enjoy it!!
> 
> WARNING: Please see endnotes for possible trigger warnings before proceeding!

Jaskier felt pleasantly achy, sprawled out on Geralt’s living room couch as he listened to the man himself rummaging around in the kitchen. But more than anything, he felt _happy._ It was an emotion he thought would be drained dry from his life, something he that would die a slow, painful death that came with the eventual and inevitable loss of the man he loved and- _okay, a bit dramatic even I have to admit,_ he thinks to himself and heaves off the couch. Maybe it was the comedown from their time together or just the fact that he no longer had to stay his hand anymore, but he most _definitely_ needed more cuddles. Now. Shuffling into Geralt’s kitchen, he comes up behind the older man and wraps his arms around Geralt’s surprisingly narrow waist, _no one should have the proportions he does, how is this even possible?_ Jaskier wonders, burying his face between Geralt’s shoulder blades, hanging off him like a limpet.

Geralt doesn’t seem put off by his koala-like cuddles and continues cooking. Jaskier was always a little more clingy than usual after a scene, which wasn’t abnormal and Geralt seemed fine with it if the way Jaskier feels him lean into his hold a little was anything to go by, which was all the better because he had no intentions of letting go. Ever since Geralt experienced Dom-space last week, they’ve been having lighter sessions just about every other day, finding what worked and what didn’t before they’re next 'real' scene. Today had been their first attempt with some light bondage, and Jaskier _still_ feels himself flush, just a tad, at how Geralt’s eyes lit up at the site of Jaskier bound by the wrists to the headboard posts. Helpless, flushed, and unbelievably turned on. It was a good afternoon, to say the least.

It had been...easy, settling into life beside Geralt, far easier than Jaskier thought it would be. He doesn’t know why the realization surprises him, they’ve been living together for nearly two months by this point but maybe he’d expected a roadblock to rear its head. Something to make him second guess all this, but they’d had enough second-guessing, hadn’t they? Jaskier certainly feels like they’ve both had more than their fair share of it, anyway. He still feels hesitant, in some small, annoyingly persistent way in the back of his mind; some part of him just waiting for the shoe to drop. But wasn’t that just how life was? Just a series of events with rewards and consequences, even if they weren’t immediately known? Well, being able to hold Geralt like this was reward enough, and at least now Jaskier knew for certain the consequences wouldn’t have to be faced alone.

He kind of wanted to kiss Geralt right then, just because he knew he could. Wanted to turn the man around, feel his arms encase Jaskier because he _knew_ Geralt would hold him, kiss him long and lazy, and try to convey all the things he couldn’t say. The barrier around them was no longer there, suffocating every one of their actions...and it- _this_ felt as natural as breathing. Jaskier couldn’t explain it, even with his natural talent for the vernacular writers possessed, being with Geralt like this...it felt new, and yet like it’s been something he’s had all his life and couldn’t imagine a life without. This was ironic, given how long they’d _fought_ for this...and by God, they _did_ fight for this. Fought for and against it as hard as they could, like trying to beat away destiny only for Her to have her way in the end, not that he was complaining but- _fighting destiny....huh, fun concept._ Jaskier had felt his writer’s block eating away at him recently, the want - oh who was he kidding? The _need_ \- to write always there, gnawing at the back of his mind but just _unable_ to find the words or inspiration as of late; who knew personal issues contributed to writer’s block? _Everyone you dolt, literally_ everyone _knows that,_ a voice that sounded far too like Filivandrel accuses, but he snorts softly and shrugs it away. 

Anyway, he was pretty sure he just had an epiphany for his White Wolf; if anyone was stubborn enough to try and fight off destiny, it was his burly, cantankerous monster-hunting protagonist...that was non-too subtlety fashioned after the man in his arms. Filing away the idea with a smile he nuzzles closer to Geralt, this man really was his muse. Sometimes Jaskier worries about Geralt realizing the similarities between his character and himself...but that was an embarrassment for Future Jaskier to deal with; Jaskier of Now was far too focused on the burly, cantankerous soft-hearted father in his arms...and whatever the hell he was cooking, because it smelled fucking _divine._

“Babe, mind getting bowls?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out and Jaskier feels him shift slightly, a _click_ indicating the stove being switched off.

Jaskier listens to the slow scrapes of the wooden utensil against the metal of the frying pan for a moment, taking in the soft sizzling sounds and the mouth-watering smell of their dinner with a smile because- _he called me ‘babe,’ again._ Geralt had been calling him by little pet names the past week, and while it seemed like such a small and silly thing to feel so overwhelmingly joyful about, Jaskier _did_ feel happy about it. Fucking elated, in fact. Geralt said it so casually, without thought or hesitation and...maybe he was projecting, or maybe Geralt felt how easy things were between them now, too. Jaskier doesn’t feel insecure enough with where they stand to not believe it isn’t the latter.

“Sure thing, love,” Jaskier replies, kissing the side of Geralt’s neck with a quick peck before releasing the older man to grab bowls and forks for them both.

Geralt hums when Jaskier sets the bowls down beside the stove, kissing him on the cheek in thanks before doling out portions for chicken and vegetable stirfry them both. It’s so domestic, so _typical_ and Jaskier adores every damn second of the normalcy. Jaskier leaves Geralt to wrapping up dinner, grabbing a beer for them to share on the way back to the living room to try and find a film to watch at Geralt’s insistence - Jaskier didn’t argue too hard because Geralt’s idea of an ‘interesting movie’ was a true-crime documentary and Jaskier didn’t want to cry tonight, thank you very much. So, he was picking tonight’s entertainment. Jaskier flicks through Netflix’s selection and pauses when he comes across an old favourite, after a moment’s hesitation he shrugs and selects _Snatch_ anyway.

Jaskier’s always secretly been a sucker for gangster movies, something about them always seemed so fascinating to him, even as a kid. Maybe it was the hierarchy of power that was always respected until it wasn’t; the intriguing commentary of criminality and capitalism, or the clever, dastardly schemes; or maybe it was the chaos that was never far behind that left you on the edge of your seat, hoping your villainous protagonist would make it through. For Jaskier, it was a combination of all those aspects, and sometimes it was just the simplicity of a clever, dour yet snarky and action-packed movie. The bonus was gangster movies were a common ground of sorts, ticking both boxes of Jaskier’s want to switch off his brain with something familiar, and Geralt’s interest in criminal escapades. Win-win. It didn’t hurt that this particular movie starred Jason Statham and Brad Pitt.

 _What if we were crazy criminals in another life, like Bonnie and Clyde, and this is our past-selves trying to be acknowledged?_ Jaskier ponders, cracking open his beer as Statham‘s narration begins coming through the speakers. He chuckles softly at the thought, _I’d be a shite criminal,_ flicking his gaze away from the screen Jaskier sees Geralt’s large, imposing form heading towards where he’s slumped down on the couch, _oh but Ger would make a_ fantastic _one, I’m sure. Handsome dolt would be good at just about anything I suspect._ Geralt sits beside Jaskier who cuddles closer once the man settles in, switching out the offered bowl for the beer and digs in. If he moans a little over dramatically at the flavourful, spicey chicken and veg, well, Geralt certainly doesn't complain.

A content lull falls over them as they watch and eat, trading the beer between them every so often. It’s nice, relaxing in a way Jaskier never really felt with a partner before now. He’d never liked silence, always feeling the need to fill in the space with words, and while Jaskier did enough talking for the both of them he was content to just settle into the quiet. Geralt made it easy, or maybe it was the open communication they now had that _allowed_ for it to be so easy. No longer on the tenuous, unclear ground, Jaskier knew he could have a running commentary going throughout the movie and that Geralt wouldn’t be annoyed by it in the slightest, but it’s also that fact that relaxes Jaskier; knowing where he and Geralt stood, after what felt like forever, that allowed him to just... _be._

Jaskier finishes off the last drops of beer just as Tyrone crashes the car on screen, leaning forward to carefully set his bowl and beer can on the table he says, “I love how the stories in this movie interweave and come together, it’s so clever and engaging...” Jaskier’s words trail when he turns to look at Geralt.

Jaskier smiles, reaching over to take the empty bowl resting beside his thigh on the couch and sets it on the table as well. Slowly sitting back, he shifts to turn more fully words the man, resting his arm over the back of the couch and stares fondly. Unable to help the grin that pulls his lips into an undoubtedly goofy smile, but Jaskier finds that can’t bring himself to care about how silly he may look. Not when Geralt looks as he does; soft, relaxed... _content_. And most of all fast asleep, snoring softly with his head tipped back and resting on the couch, the pale expanse of his throat exposed. His mouth hangs open, just the barest bit. It’s somehow the cutest fucking thing Jaskier has ever seen.

He carefully reaches over to play with a lock of Geralt’s hair, resting his chin on his other forearm and wonders if the inability to finish a whole movie in one sitting is an inherent trait amongst fathers. He recalls his own dad nodding off early into reruns of _X-Files_ on nights he allowed Jaskier to join him to watch them, which was just as well, it allowed his younger self to ogle at David Duchovny without fear of bigoted retribution. He shakes away the memory, focusing solely on Geralt’s sleeping face when a new thought plays across his mind, _I wonder if I’ll start falling asleep halfway through films when I’m a dad._

Jaskier’s fingers freeze in their gentle trek through Geralt’s loose strands, the silent words actually registering, _Jaskier you haven’t even told him you love him yet, hell the two of you haven’t even_ fucked _yet! Pump the fucking breaks, mate._ It was true, but also... he just couldn’t bring himself to care, not when it seemed like the next inevitable, natural step somewhere in their lives; he already loved Ciri like a little sister...would it be that much different to love her as a daughter? _Fuckin’ hell,_ he thinks with a soft, bemused chuckle, _I was too nervous to even adopt a goldfish and now I’m thinking about kids..._

“What have you done to me, you gorgeous brute?” Jaskier whispers to a sleeping Geralt, the man doesn’t respond but he doesn’t need him to, not now, anyway.

Jaskier gets up off the couch, mindful not to jostle Geralt and grabs their empty bowls to leave in the sink, and tosses the can into the recycling. They could do the dishes tomorrow after breakfast. It had been a long, if lazy day for them both, but what else were Saturdays for? Though it was clearly time for bed. Jaskier lingers by the sink for a moment longer, though. The silence allowing him the privacy and space for his thoughts to wander, maybe even venture to places they shouldn’t. Places like: _do I want a family?_ The honest answer was no, no he didn’t. But did he want _this_ family? _Almost as much as I want to be with Geralt,_ he answers himself immediately _._ And maybe he was so quick to respond because Geralt’s family weren’t strangers to him when he really thought about it, which was an odd realization to come to only now.

He’s known Triss and Yen the longest, had known them before Geralt, and trusted the women to have his back without hesitation. It warmed him to know that, on some level, they felt the same about him even if they showed it in odd ways. Jaskier’s grown rather close to Ciri over such a short time, looking forward to every one of their movie nights with her and Yen. Hell, he’d even met Eskel, Lambert and Keira, granted he was traumatized and it was at a police station, but Jaskier’s had worse first impressions in his life. And yes, he’d never actually met or spoken to Geralt’s father, but meeting the parents wasn’t exactly something you did unless you were _serious-_ serious about a person, and they’d only recently started things off. Well, started things off _officially_ , anyways. So the meeting with Geralt’s father could wait, and it was fine.

So all in all, he wasn’t jumping into entirely unfamiliar waters here, so why the hesitation? The doubt? While Jaskier understood the _concept_ of family, his version of it was probably more disjointed and distorted than most. To say he wasn’t...well, _close_ to his own would be an understatement. He held more faith in his little ‘found family’ with Priscilla, Mousesack and Filavandrel than his biological one - in all honesty, Triss and Yen even held a place in his little inner circle of ‘family’ far before he’d ever met Geralt. He knew he wasn’t the first person to believe in found family, and likely wouldn’t be the last because the world could be a cruel place, but for all that he loved his friends...he didn’t grow up with them. He’d met them _when_ he’d grown up and chosen to keep them close, and by some miracle, they’d chosen to _stay._

No, he’d grown up with a mother who loved him conditionally; who’d driven him more times than not to look into the mirror with enough self-loathing that skipping a few meals and forcibly rejecting the rest seemed like the lesser evil, and even then it wasn’t enough. Some days, Jaskier _still_ had to remind himself of what Priscilla taught him through her own trials with body image issues: healthy is better than skinny, and it was a lesson they’d reminded each other of over the years. His father wasn’t much better, where his mother left his emotions battered, his father had been less than a gentle-touch in trying to ‘correct’ Jaskier’s ‘predilections’ towards the same-sex. He still flinches at the sound of cracking belts, even from films.

It had been a blessing in disguise when they’d left him to fend for himself if he was being honest.

But with his less than healthy familial history, _could_ he be a good father to a bright, strong-willed girl like Ciri? _I’d_ never _lay a hand on her,_ he immediately thinks, but beating a child into submission wasn’t the issue. What if...he did the same things his mother did? Made a careless comment that would haunt Ciri for years to come? For all his father did, those wounds healed, but sometimes Jaskier could _still_ hear his mother’s voice whenever he was in a snack aisle in the market shaming him to turn and leave. _What if I ruin that bright child?_ His hands tighten on the edge of the kitchen sink, feeling a pit widening in his stomach, _what can I even offer her? I’m a struggling writer and barely an escort for fuckssake._ What if he does or says something and she never speaks to him again? He couldn’t stand even the thought of it.

 _I don’t talk to my own parents,_ he admits, his lips witching downward when he realizes with a start, _I haven’t even told them about what happened with Olgierd._ Jaskier wants to believe he hadn't told them because it slipped his mind, but he knows that's a lie; a falsehood to protect him from the truth. The reality was he hadn’t told them because they would _not care,_ he knew they’d tell him he _deserved_ it. Knew they’d tell him he ‘got what was coming to him,’ as Olgierd had even said to him when he grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him out of the bar. His fingers feel numb, his short nails curling inward where they dig into the metal of the kitchen sink, but he can’t bring himself to let go, not when he can _feel_ Olgierd‘s hand on his neck; feel his hot, liquored breath against the side of his throat telling Jaskier all the things he had _planned_ for them. He wouldn't risk being dragged away again.

His body feels hot, _too_ hot and his neck if fucking _scorching_ and in a desperate attempt to rid his skin of the blistering feeling he rakes his nails over the crook of his neck, over and over and _over_ but it just _won’t cool down._ Jaskier can’t stop scratching, torn between the desperate, quick clawing and just as distressed attempts to breathe; he can _feel_ Olgierd‘s breath, his _hands_ on his neck and he has to _get it off._ He’ll taint Ciri, dim her brightness if he gets too close with Olgierd‘s branding still so deeply ingrained into his skin, and he can’t- Jaskier _cannot_ do that to her. He won’t. He _refuses._

All Jaskier can feel is _heat,_ sweltering and inescapable. He wants to yank his clothes off, rip his _skin_ off. Torn between trying to inhale to ease his burning lungs and gagging on the _taste_ of that panicked fire in the back of his throat trying to force it’s way out. His mother tells him to force it out, that he'll feel lighter for it; Olgierd tells him to take it because he asked for it. Jaskier coughs, wretches and spits into the sink, but it still isn't enough. _I can’t breathe, oh God I can’t breathe!_ He thinks he says the words, but all Jaskier hears is a faint whine past the roaring cacophony of voices and blood rushing in his ears. _He’s not here Jaskier. She’s not here. They are_ not _here! You’re fine, you’re fine you’refine you’refineyou’refinefinefinefine-_

Jaskier doesn’t realize how close the ground is to him, only sees it rushing up towards him just before his knees crack on it, the reverberating ache shoots up his thighs, and for just a moment there’s a respite. His manic brain distracted by the sudden, unexpected pain and he realizes he’s crying, gagging on his own tongue and panicked breaths...but only for a moment. It all comes rushing back, and Jaskier feels like he blacks out, his hands scrambling at his throat in a sort of desperation that puts his teeth on edge - that he can feel in his _bones._ The last thought he remembers before the chaos blinds him is an unexpected one: _so much for not crying tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING:  
> \- Mentions of bigotry/homophobia (perpetrated by family members)  
> \- Mentions of child abuse  
> \- Mentions of past eating disorders/fat shaming  
> \- Mentions/memories of kidnapping and attempted assault  
> \- Anxiety/Panic attack 
> 
> (If you feel like there were any warnings I missed, please let me know, thank you!!)
> 
> ~~~~~  
> Hello again everyone!!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, the ending was tense not going to lie to you. Though recovery isn’t a straight, nor easy road and sometimes our traumas just pop their ugly heads out of nowhere, much as Jaskier’s did. Once again I’m super sorry for no update last week, though maybe it would interest some of you that Jaskier’s musings about him and Geralt being criminals actually mirrored my own in terms of some plot bunnies that have been hopping around in my brain as of late for a darker, more crime-based AU between these two! Haha! I don’t think I’ll get to it until this one is wrapped up, but what would you think? Any interest? Let me know about it if you are, or just about your thoughts on this chapter, I love, love, LOVE hearing from y’all!!
> 
> I hope you all have a lovely week and stay safe, happy, and healthy! xxoxoo


	22. A Little Scheming Never Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It's easy to feel hopeful on a beautiful day like today, but there will be dark days ahead of us, too. There will be days when you feel alone, and that is when hope is needed most. No matter how buried it gets or how lost you feel, you must promise me that you will hold onto hope. Keep it alive. We have to be greater than what we suffer.”_  
>  ― Gwen Stacey, _The Amazing Spider-Man 2_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> I’m SO sorry for the lack of updates recently, exams are coming up so professors have been throwing things at me left, right and center haha. I know this is late, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!
> 
> Please see endnotes for chapter warnings!

It was foolish- no, _childish_ to believe love could heal all wounds, physical or otherwise. People thought relationships were about ‘fixing’ each other, and to those that believed that Geralt felt sorry for them. Even if only for the knowledge that they’d spend their whole lives devoted to ‘fixing’ their partners, or themselves _through_ their partners, and never truly be whole. The reality was, _he’d_ been one of those people years and years ago. He’d thought Yen could be the person to repair some unknown, broken void within him, worsened each time he’d gone out to the frontlines not knowing if he’d return. However, it _was_ through Yen he’d learned what relationships truly were: a balance. A sort of Yin-Yang of opposing sides of the scale, no matter how obvious or vague, evening each other out; it was their imbalance that, in the end, made them realize they were better off separated.

The thing that always fascinated Geralt, though, was that Yen had never even realized what she’d taught him; would never truly grasp how she’d shifted his view of what love was, even now. Yen didn’t need him, she _wanted_ him flaws and all, and over time Geralt realized he didn’t have to need her to want her, either. No one _needed_ another person, but what they wanted was different, and that’s what relationships boiled down to now for Geralt: they were a want. A _want_ to strive to be a better person for the person you chose, a _want_ to help that person through their struggles because you knew they would want to help you in turn. And sometimes it was that want that warmed Geralt’s heart because at its core, it was a choice; not forced, but one willingly made.

It was Geralt’s decisions that lead him to that night, from his missteps to his better ones; all just a series of choices that had brought him to holding Jaskier’s trembling body in his arms on the kitchen floor, slowly rocking back and forth with his heart in his throat and clueless for what to do. But Jaskier was a choice Geralt had and would make, time and again, no matter how rough nights like those could be. He didn’t need Jaskier, and no matter what Jaskier felt, he didn’t need Geralt but they wanted each other - oh how Geralt _wanted_ that beautiful man - in their lives, and Geralt would do his best to never let Jaskier regret that choice.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Geralt sighs and braces his elbows on his knees, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“But you did do something, didn’t you?” Regis asks, sitting across from Geralt in his office chair but doesn’t look up from the notes he’s scribbling down.

“Of course I did,” Geralt answers, maybe a little too sharply but he could _still_ feel the panic from a week ago painting the back of his throat, “why do you think I’m here? I...I messed up, Regis...”

* * *

_“I’m f-fine- I’m_ fine _, I-I’m...I’m_ so sorry _,” Jaskier repeats the same two phrases for nearly five minutes now, from the very moment Geralt was stirred out of sleep by a thudding in the kitchen to rushing over and taking Jaskier in his arms._

 _Geralt had worried he’d overstepped, that the man might not want to be touched in the throws of what was so obviously a panic attack, but Jaskier clung to him the moment he’d touched him and Geralt couldn’t find it in himself to let go. Jaskier hadn’t said what brought this on, and frankly, Geralt was too scared of worsening it to ask. He was at a loss. Geralt’s_ _troubled mind lead to bouts of insomnia or depression, but not the rattling anxiety that Jaskier was barely able to come to grips with; that shook him apart. The younger man kept repeating himself, going back and forth between trying to reassure Geralt he was ‘fine,’ and apologizing. He couldn’t listen to it anymore, not when Jaskier was so clearly_ not fine _and had nothing to apologize for. But...what was Geralt supposed to do? Should he call someone? Should he try to coddle him? Talk him through his panic until he settled?_ Would _he settle? It was all too much, too many doubts and possible pitfalls that Geralt found himself speaking without thought, willing to trust his instincts instead of reason if only this once;_ what’s the worse that could happen?

_“You never told me how the Witcher saves the princess,” Geralt finds himself saying, gently stroking a hand through Jaskier’s hairs_

_Jaskier’s litany of apologizes, surprisingly tapers off almost immediately, as though Geralt’s words managed to sink in through the haze of panic before settling somewhere in his mind. The younger brunet’s fist, clutched onto Geralt’s shirt flexes slightly, the silence stretching between them and Geralt feels_ himself _begin to panic slightly- has he misspoken? Done the wrong thing_ (again)? _Jaskier’s head ducks down slightly, his cheek pressed flush against the older man’s peck. He’s still trembling when he speaks._

_“The...the Witcher saves her,” Jaskier's voice is soft, almost breathless but the words are new and Geralt feels his own anxieties slowly ebbing. “He breaks the curse.”_

_“Sounds heroic,” he softly notes, his hand still a following a gentle, repetitive motion through Jaskier’s silken mane, “how does he do it?”_

_Jaskier tells him and Geralt listens, only speaking when the younger man tapers off, otherwise, he hums at Jaskier’s trembling, stuttered words but doesn’t interrupt him. As shaky and terrified as Jaskier’s tone is to Geralt’s ears, for how deeply it makes Geralt ache in his bones, he doesn’t stop listening. Jaskier was a natural storyteller, even now, coming down from the precipice of an anxiety attack the likes Geralt had never seen, Jaskier spins the story of the cursed child princess freed by the Witcher. If Geralt weren’t so bogged down with worry, and even shame for not having thought ahead to prepare for something like this, he would have been utterly riveted. The story was good, or maybe, it was just Jaskier._

_The trembling eventually settles into minute shakes_ , the last of his anxiety probably working itself out of his system, _if Geralt had to guess. Jaskier sits up a little straighter, looking at Geralt for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen, or at least actually_ present _for the first time in what felt like hours. He worries at his lower lip, brows furrowed as he tries to iron out his thoughts, but all Geralt could think about was how pale he still looked - how_ frightened - _even now._

_“You’re older than I am,” Jaskier whispers, shifting to straddle Geralt’s lap while deft, uncertain fingers play across the lines at the corner of his eye. Geralt never really thought about their age difference, not when Jaskier seemed so full of life and well beyond his years, but right then there was a fear, a vulnerability that was almost child-like in his wide, reddened blue eyes. “Does it get any easier?” He whispers, his gaze still fixed on the crow’s feet he strokes softly, almost reverently._

_“No,” Geralt whispers in the silence that had fallen over them he was too weary to break, he wanted to say pretty, positive words...but he suspected Jaskier didn’t want to hear them, and after that, the truth was all that was left. “It comes and goes, in waves...but they become more manageable, less like you’re drowning...even if you’re struggling to keep your head above water.”_

_Jaskier watches him for a moment, eyes searching for..._ something _then nods, curling closer into Geralt’s chest. The older man rests his chin over Jaskier’s head, hold him close, and says nothing._

* * *

“Did Jaskier tell you what set off his attack?” Regis asks, not unkindly but pointedly enough that Geralt knew not answering would be counterproductive.

Geralt nods, sitting back in his seat, “it wasn’t just... _one_ thing, but a culmination I guess? I didn’t want to press, he was wrecked, Regis and I just-“ he trails off and sighs. Geralt knew he should have maybe pressed a little more, after the fact but...Jaskier would look so _panicked_ if he so much as hinted at talking about it.

“You were right not to push, Geralt,” the psychologist picks up after Geralt’s words taper out, “while I’m happy you two are working together on having an open communication system, trauma, as you well know, is more difficult to talk about than most things. He’ll open up about it eventually, I’m sure, but for now...”

“For now, all I can do it wait,” Geralt finishes with a huff, it annoyed him that he couldn’t help Jaskier more. Honestly and truly _frustrated him_ he could just... _fix_ what Olgierd had broken and felt like an asshole for feeling that way at all. “He said it...started with Olgierd, that he could remember him breathing on his neck, and...I get that- _I get_ that, Regis, fuck, you know I still dream about my time serving. Waking up to the sounds of bombs detonating isn’t something your psyche forgets easily, as you’ve oh so sweetly pointed out, _a lot.”_

Regis chuckles at Geralt’s admittedly _grumpy_ tone, but doesn’t interrupt, “but then he started going on about how he would ‘ruin Ciri,’ I didn’t get what he meant at first but the more he spoke the more I realized he thinks he’s a bad influence. Or that he’ll ‘corrupt’ her or some bullshit,” Geralt runs a hand through his hair, not even for the first time this session and idly wonders how unkempt he looks by now. “I didn’t know what to fucking say to that, everything I _tried_ to say was brushed off, and if I pressed it he _panicked,_ but if I didn’t say anything he took it to mean I was _agreeing_ with whatever he’d convinced himself of.”

“So communication when to hell, is what you’re saying?” Regis concludes, the abrupt, yet succinct summary of Geralt’s rambling actually made him smile if only a little.

“In a fucking hand-basket.”

Regis hums, jotting down a few more notes while Geralt stews in his own thoughts for a moment then asks, “have you tried anything else, aside from talking, after what happened?”

Geralt shakes his head, feeling a little guilty at his shortcomings being highlighted so plainly, “Jaskier panicked every time I brought it up, so I stopped. Everything’s been normal the past week and while I know the issue with Olgierd needs _time-_ which is perfectly fine, it’s the Ciri thing that worries me. I don’t know what to fucking _say_ to convince him he’s wrong about this, Regis...he’s amazing around Ciri, and she loves him but how do I get him to believe that?”

Regis takes a moment, mulling over Geralt’s words and just as he’s about to reply the soft chime of the session’s time being up sounds. Geralt groans softly, while he’s always been hard-pressed to admit it, he enjoyed his therapy sessions with Regis. It just...made things a little more manageable, helped him unload enough to make breathing a little easier. But post-sessions? Well-

“Oh good, the session’s over,” Regis notes sounding a little _too_ spirited, setting down his note pad and shuffles forward in his seat enough to rest his elbows on his thighs and pins Geralt with a pointed stare. Regis was a professional through and through, somehow able to surgically separate Geralt the Patient from Geralt the Friend. But once that chime went off? Well, Geralt was no longer technically his _patient_ , so- “Geralt, you utter fucking _clotpole_.”

 _There it is,_ Geralt almost barks a laugh at the smooth yet stark switch between his therapist and his friend, and while he knows he’s probably in for a lecture, Geralt can’t deny that Regis is a wise man - even if his delivery was crasser and a tad harsher after their sessions. ”What the hell is a ‘clot pole’?” Geralt grumbles, but Regis barrels on over him.

“Jaskier all but tells you he thinks he’ll turn Ciri into the next Lindsay Lohan and you just let him go on believing that?“ Regis wasn’t yelling, he was far too calm and collected of a person, far too _laid back_ to ever even bother to raise his voice but he may as well have been screaming at Geralt for the way the words ring in his ears.

Geralt bristles, the past week of guilt over failing to right this wrong finally surging to the forefront, “I ‘just’ anything! I know I messed up, but how the hell was I supposed to tell him he was _wrong_ , Regis?! He looked like he was about to be _sick_ every time I so much as mentioned her name!”

Regis sighs but doesn’t argue, “Geralt, while I’m proud of you for establishing good communication with Jaskier, let's face it, talking isn’t your strong suit.”

“So what would you have me do?”

“You’ve always been a man of action, Geralt, so _show him_ that he’s wrong. Jaskier can try to convince himself he’s the next Mussolini if he wants, but we both know he cares far more than he lets on and _that’s_ saying something.” Regis...wasn’t wrong, not by a long shot. Jaskier wore his heart on his sleeve more often than not, but even then cared far more, and far more _deeply_ than most realized. And Geralt _knew_ Jaskier loved Ciri, even if he’d somehow convinced himself he’d...what, be like _his_ parents? Geralt didn’t know much about Jaskier’s parents, but he knew enough to know he already hated them.

“How do I do that?” Geralt finally asks, and even to himself sounds a little desperate. The reality was, Ciri was his daughter and would always come first, and if Jaskier couldn’t be in her life... _no, that’s worst-case scenario do_ not _jump to that now._

“Ciri’s a bright girl, why not use your newfound speaking skill and ask _her?”_ Geralt opens his mouth to argue but Regis waves off his words with a dismissive hand, “Geralt, she’s just as much a part of this as you and Jaskier are, shouldn’t she be just as involved?”

Geralt hated to admit it, but Regis was right. _When isn’t he?_ Ciri would always be his baby girl, but the truth was she was growing up and had just as much a say in this as Geralt did - especially since it _involved_ her. Ever since Ciri was young, Geralt and Yen made a conscious effort to let her thoughts be heard, yes they guided her but people always underestimated children and spoke for them - if not _over_ them. Yen and Geralt had enough combined experience to both agree they didn’t want that for their daughter. And if Ciri knew what Jaskier thought, well... _she’d pull a Yen and probably whack him on the head with a Wiffle ball bat._ It wouldn’t be so bad, Ciri was clever and observant, learning far too much for a girl of her age but took it in stride, understanding that the world wasn’t as black and white as so many made it out to be - _pretty sure I still believed in the Easter Bunny at her age,_ Geralt thinks a little proudly. Ciri was capable, smart and honestly a lot braver than himself; she’d want to help, _demand_ to help if she knew. Ciri fiercely loved and cared for those around her, just like Jaskier, _they’re far too alike sometimes,_ butthe thought made Geralt smile.

“Well I think my doctor and friend duties are done here,” Regis announces with a soft chuckle, pushing on his knees to stand. “Let me know how things go?”

Geralt huffs and stands as well, “as a friend or as a doctor?”

“Eh, either,” Regis replies with a nonchalant shrug, pulling Geralt into a hug and softly adds, “it’ll be alright, Geralt.”

Geralt hugs his long time friend just a little tighter, “I hope so.”

Geralt leaves Regis’ office with his phone already in hand, though doesn’t make the call just yet. He needs to do this right, if Jaskier catches on to what he was planning to do there was no doubt in his mind that Jaskier would think Geralt was pandering to his insecurities. However, despite his trepidations, that didn’t change the fact that- _I have no fucking clue what to do._ With that thought in mind, Geralt finally makes the call, waiting a few moments until-

“ ** _PUT THAT DOWN RIGHT NOW OR SO HELP ME!_** _”_ For a moment Geralt feels concerned, until Ciri tacks on, far more cheerful and calm, “ ** _hi dad, what’s up?_** ”

“You okay, Ciri?” Geralt can’t help but ask, it wasn’t odd that his daughter was telling off someone, she and Yen were rather bossy when they wanted to be - he’d never admit it, but he loved it.

“ ** _Yeah, I’m at Dara’s house with a few others, we’re trying to organize for a school fundraiser and_ some people _will not pull their weight- one-second dad,_** ” Geralt bites back a grin, listening for what vaguely sounds like Ciri threatening someone with a wedgie. Thankfully for all her threats, Ciri wasn’t a bully, which was a relief and point of pride for both Yen and Geralt. If they were called into the principles office, it was because Ciri had _ended_ a fight some kid was unwise enough to start. She was cunning and clever, even for her age, always knowing what to say instead of throwing her weight around - he didn’t think she’d ever admit it, but Ciri had a soft heart, despite her sharp words. Geralt settles into his car and debates the merits of grabbing a coffee for himself and Jaskier on the way back home.

“ ** _Okay, I’m back...for like five minutes,_** ” Ciri says on the other end, sounding a little breathless and Geralt bites back a chuckle as he starts up the vehicle, _I need caffeine, who am I kidding?_ “ **I swear if I wasn’t here _nothing_ would get done.**”

Geralt sets his phone on speaker before pulling out of the parking lot, eyeing for the closest drive-through, “then I’ll make this quick, it’s about Jaskier-“

“ ** _Did you upset him,_ again?!**” Geralt pauses at that wondering what the hell her mothers have been telling her, about to refute the claim when his daughter barrels on, “ ** _dad I swear if you did something I_ will _run you over with Roach!_** ”

For all the responses he probably _should_ say, he finds himself going with, “you can’t even drive yet.”

“ ** _No, but mum and Triss can,_** ” Geralt can hear the grin in her voice and finds himself mirroring it as he turns in to a drive through line.

“No I didn’t upset Jaskier, I swear...at least I think,” he sighs, grin slipping off his face. Geralt felt bad for involving his daughter in this in all honesty. He knew Ciri would want to help, that she’d be able to process and handle the information given to her probably better than Geralt had, but...what if, for all their efforts, it failed anyway? _Ciri would be devastated._

 _“_ **_Dad?_ ** _”_

“Sorry, sorry yeah I’m here,” Geralt snaps out of his thoughts, just in time to creep the car forward in line, ignoring the aggravated honking of the caffeine-craving patrons behind him. “Ciri...I need your help-“

“ ** _Of course you do._** ”

“-with Jaskier,” Geralt continues, despite his daughter’s snark, “you know I’m serious about him, maybe even as serious as your mother is about Triss and-”

“ ** _Oh dad, that’s-_** ” she starts, sounding _elated_ until he continues.

“Jask thinks he’ll be a bad parent figure to you-”

“ **- _bullshit!_** ” Ciri’s curse through the speakers makes him wince, “ ** _Jaskier would make an amazing dad! Why do older people always think this way? I swear Triss thought I’d, like, set myself on fire or something if she ended up mum. I thought adults were supposed to be_ less _dramatic._** ”

Geralt can’t help the surprised, amused snort that escapes him at his daughter’s words, _leave it to the teenager to be the most mature amongst us._

 _“_ ** _Okay, I’ll help, what do you need?_** _”_ Geralt knew that tone of voice, knew it because over the course of Ciri’s short life he’s heard it right before his little spitfire would herald her way through some crazy scheme or big event. He still winces at the memory of hearing it when Ciri was seven and thought running up to a wild fox for a hug was a good idea, the end result being Ciri getting tetanus shots and Yenn having a new yowling friend in her backyard.

“Well, he won’t listen to anything I have to say, so I was hoping we could try to _show_ him he’s overthinking this. I thought...maybe ice skating? Or-“

“ ** _Dad,_** ” Ciri cuts in, and really Geralt’s kind of glad for it, he’d felt _himself_ wince at his own suggestion, “ ** _do you have icing at home?_** ”

Geralt hesitates at the non sequitur, “I...think so?”

Ciri hums, sounding far too much like himself for a moment, “ ** _okay, here’s what I need you to do-_** ”

* * *

Geralt pushes open the front door, closing it behind him while balancing the coffees and bags before toeing off his shoes. The coffees were likely cold by now - lukewarm if he was lucky - but he could nuke them easily enough. More than cold coffees, he was wondering how he’d bring up-

“Geralt, you back?” Jaskier’s voice calls from the living room, sounding just a tad distracted which wasn’t unfamiliar to Geralt. If anything, it relaxed him a bit; distracted Jaskier meant writing Jaskier which was usually a good thing. “Did you get coffee?”

“How’d you guess?” Geralt asks, tossing his keys into the bowl near the door just as Jaskier pops his head around the corner to greet him.

“I have the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to caffeine, dear,” Jaskier replies easily, stepping closer to peck him on the lips. Geralt smiles at the easy, domestic gesture; it was still a novelty, being greeted by Jaskier like this, “you went to the grocery?”

“Yeah,” Geralt leans down to pick up the bags, walking with Jaskier to the kitchen to set them atop the counter, “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“What a coincidence, I wanted to ask you something too,” Jaskier hums, placing Geralt’s coffee into the microwave first and setting the timer.

“You go first.” Geralt starts setting the ingredients away in the cupboards, feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him while he does. Jaskier is quiet for a moment, though a glance tells him it isn’t nerves that stays the younger man’s tongue, but a gleaming sort of amusement.

“Geralt, have you ever planned a scene?” Geralt’s hand slows as he sets away one of the boxes, turning to look at Jaskier curiously more closely.

Jaskier steps closer to Geralt then, lazily slipping his arms around his shoulders with a tempting smile curling his lips, and all at once Geralt feels a little breathless, “what do you mean?”

Jaskier’s sly grin widens as he leans closer, brushing the top of his nose along Geralt’s cheek as Jaskier’s chest presses flush against his, “what I _mean_ is what your deepest, most desperately depraved fantasy, dear heart?" He purrs, trailing feather-light kisses along Geralt’s jaw.

Geralt’s hand moves to Jaskier’s hips, unsure if he’s trying to pull the man closer or just _hang on,_ “Jaskier, I...”

“You have time to think about it, of course,” he feels Jaskier’s lips dance over the skin just at the underside of his jaw as he speaks, and this time his hands flex with _interest,_ “I did just spring this upon you, after all, and you’ll need time...if you want to do it, that is?”

Jaskier pulls away just enough to meet Geralt’s eyes, their bodies still flush together as his whispered question hangs between them with something else, something bright and _heady,_ “I-”

Geralt jumps a little at the loud _ding_ of the microwave timer, whereas Jaskier only chuckles softly and pulls away, “have a think on it, love,” he says as he turns to collect Geralt’s coffee and hand it to him.

Geralt takes the steaming cup, trying to reconcile the juxtaposition of what the hell just happened and what the hell Jaskier had just _asked._ He watches Jaskier set his own cup in the microwave and reset the timer, before turning to meet his gaze. Still grinning like a far too adorable little shit, “you wanted to ask something?”

For a moment Geralt means to ask what the hell he was talking about when he remembers, taking a sip of his coffee to right himself, Geralt finally asks, “how good are you at baking?”

Jaskier doesn’t look put off by the question which is a good start, but he does look curiously intrigued, “I’d put Ramsay to shame, why?”

“Because we’re helping Ciri with her bake sale,” he replies blithely, and at Jaskier’s shocked expression, it’s Geralt who grins this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER WARNING:  
> \- Mentions of noticing self-harming scratches (due to panic attack)  
> \- Mentions of anxiety/panic attack
> 
> (If you feel like there were any warnings I missed, please let me know, thank you!!)
> 
> ~~~~~  
> Hello there!
> 
> If you’re reading this then you’ve made it to the end of the chapter, yay! I hope you enjoyed, I was a tad stuck with this chapter not going to lie to you, but it was fun to write, I never thought Geralt and Ciri scheming would be in this fic and yet here we are! Haha! Once again I am SO sorry for the delay, I hope you enjoyed all the same! I think this story is coming to a close, I have a few ideas I want to wrap up to tie it all together, and I hope you’ll be here to see these boys to the end!  
> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who likes and comments, hearing from you all makes me so happy!  
> Love you all and I shall see you next chapter!  
> xxoxoo


	23. Everyone Loves a Bake Sale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.”_  
>  ― Neil Gaiman, _Fables & Reflections_

“Dirt brownies?” Ciri almost sounds incredulous, standing beside Jaskier as she stares at the bowl of mix he stirs - he doesn’t blame her, the first time he’d heard the name _he’d_ thought part of the ingredient list would need a fistful of dirt from his friend’s backyard.

“Yes! You can’t have a respectable bake sale without Dirt Brownies!” He continues to insist, reaching around her to pull over a bag of gummy worms from their baking supply mound in the middle of the kitchen island. It looked a whole lot more colourful after he’d dragged Geralt back to the grocery store for more ingredients. “They’re _utterly_ delicious, fun to make and honestly, in my experience, a best seller!”

Ciri looks intrigued by the prospect, tearing open the bag of gummies to snack on one while she considers his words, “you’ve done a bake sale before?”

“Oh dear heart, I’ve not only _done_ bake sales before,” Jaskier starts as dramatically and grandiose as he can, if only for the way it makes Ciri smile, “I’ve _dominated_ bake sales before!”

Ciri giggles and all at once looks like an ecstatic child, Jaskier is helpless but to grin fondly at her easy expression - Ciri’s smiles were contagious, he’d admit. After Geralt told him about the bake sale the day before, Jaskier had insisted they go to the grocery again the next day after finding his purchases woefully lacking. Bless him, Geralt tried, Jaskier was sure but simple cake mix alone just wouldn’t cut it. Kids were picky with their sweets, but more than anything always curious to try whatever looked fun and exciting. So he’d darted around the supermarket like an over-sugared child, snatching things off shelves, and tossing them into the ever-growing pile in the cart Geralt pushed after him. Jaskier knew he’d over-shopped, and while he wasn’t ready to admit it - maybe even to himself, okay, _especially_ to himself - he was _nervous,_ damn it. He wanted this to go smoothly, couldn’t stomach the _thought_ of disappointing Ciri; if this didn’t turn out well, if she disliked him after, he could cope...but if she _hated_ him for ruining her bake sale? A _fundraising_ bake sale for her debate team no less, Jaskier honestly didn’t know _what_ he’d do.

So, yes, far too many ingredients for three kinds of sweets it was, and a bundle of unbridled nervous energy to boot.

“So we just need whip for the strawberry cake?” Ciri asks as she steps off to the side to start on her baking task, setting out a few of the recyclable cake trays on the kitchen island.

Jaskier sets down his bowl of brownie mix and turns to the refrigerator, pulling a large bowl of whip and another of chopped up strawberries he’d worked on that morning for their baking today. He’d woken up early, before the sun was even up really, to get started on all the prep they’d need for their baking session with Ciri before the school’s bake sale that evening. Ciri had already worked on truffle pops with her mothers the night before, assured by Jaskier’s promises that his recipes wouldn’t take more than a few hours to make. He’s assured her they’d have ample time to get the treats finished up before they had to head to her school carnival, where she and her debate team would sell their baked goods. He’d woken up at the crack of dawn to ensure his promise would be kept, after all.

Quite frankly, Jaskier had felt strangely excited for their time together today, enough so that waking up before Geralt - which _never_ happened - seemed like the easiest thing to do. It was testament enough to his excitement - or was it nerves? - because Jaskier was a self-proclaimed late-riser and _detested_ mornings on his best days. But the thought of disappointing Ciri had him up, out of bed and in the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee before a rooster would even deem fit to crow. But seeing her smiling now, a gleam of excitement in her eyes, made the fatigue he knew would rear it’s head later well worth it.

Setting the bowls on the counter, he opens up a bag of graham crackers, “yup, just spread the whip,” he begins to explain, demonstrating the first layer for Ciri to copy, “layer the graham crackers on top, add the whip again then layer strawberries, and repeat!”

“That’s it?” The young girl looks a little surprised, stepping into the space Jaskier occupied once he hands her the baking spatula.

“That’s it, no muss, no fuss,” Jaskier smiles, watching her spread a layer of whip with ease. Ciri was a quick learner, and he felt a little proud over having taught her something, as simple and menial as it was, “these recipes are pretty easy and quick, which makes them perfect for today. Remind me to teach you how to bake a soufflé someday, _that_ is a bitch and a half but _goodness_ is it worth it.”

Ciri looks up at Jaskier with a twinkle she tries to tame but fails, a mischievous little spark in her bright eyes he isn’t sure the reason for. But she looks elated at the prospect, and Jaskier puts it down as a child’s excitement over trying new sweets. _Maybe she doesn’t get to bake often,_ he reasons, though a part of him silently hopes her eagerness might be for the time they get to spend together, he knows he is.

“Geralt, have you set the oven, love?” Jaskier calls over his shoulder, glancing back at the older man who grips the mixing bowl held in the crook of his elbow, mixing the ingredients for theS’more Cupcakes.

“Yes,” Geralt replies, then grumps, “and you know we have a mixer, right? I don’t see why I have to do this by hand.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, turning on his heels to walk over to Geralt and peck him on the lips, a wholly easy and novel gesture he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of, “because there’s no _fun_ in using a mixer, my dear.”

Geralt stares down at Jaskier for a moment before huffing, a small, begrudged smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he acquiesces. For a moment he sees Geralt’s eyes flick over his shoulder before settling back on him, “if I get carpal tunnel, I blame you.”

“‘I blame you,’ _chef_ ,” Jaskier teases, quickly dancing away with Geralt tries to poke at his ticklish side, but chuckles all the same.

“Hey, Jaskier?” Ciri calls from behind him, turning his attention to her he-

“Hey!” Jaskier squawks, staring cross-eyed at a dollop of whip on the tip of his nose Ciri had smeared on with the spatula. For the life of him, he tries looking cross at her, but his frown is shaky at best, and he doesn’t last more than a few seconds before breaking out into a fit of giggles at the childish glee on her face. “That’s how it is, is it?”

“Ciri, that’s not a very nice thing to do-” Geralt reprimands, though there’s a distinctly playful note in his tone. Jaskier straightens up, giving a curt nod and joins Geralt’s side.

“Exactly, it’s so _very_ childish to- _oh come on!”_ Jaskier yelps, turning to glare at Geralt while the man simply smirks back at him. Right then, Jaskier sees the resemblance between him and his daughter more than ever, and who knew it would be in the likeness of their adorably delinquent smiles?

“-you don’t go for the nose, you go for the _cheek_ ,” Geralt continues after smearing a spoonful of batter onto Jaskier’s face, “more surface area, you’re less likely to miss, right _chef?”_

“Oh, _now_ you’ve done it,” Jaskier leaps back as Geralt tries going at him again with another spoonful of batter, snatching up the mixing bowl of brownie mix he’d stirred together. Holding out his own chocolate-covered spoon like a sword, he cries out, “have at thee!”

It devolves from there, the trio fighting with batter and whip covered utensils in between their baking, flicking crumbled cookies and crackers at each other, and making an all-around mess none of them can feel sorry for through all the laughter. They - somehow - managed to make the baked treats despite the loss of ‘soldiers,‘ as Geralt put it, through all the chaos; refrigerating what needed to be chilled and setting out what needed to cool. And it’s just as Ciri begins shaking flower out of Jaskier’s hair that a throat clears. The trio turn to see a beaming Triss and very unimpressed looking Yennefer, the two women taking in the scene with very different reactions, and say in unison-

“We missed all the fun!”

“What are you all, five?” Yen side-eyes Triss before rolling her eyes with a shake of her head, “I swear, I leave Ciri alone with you two for less than a day and you’ve made her into a living Gingerbread man.”

“Gingerbread _lady_ ,” Ciri harrumphs, though she can’t quite keep the grin off her smug, batter and frosting covered face.

“Well then my _lady_ , we have less than two hours until the carnival, so why don’t you go upstairs and get cleaned up while we talk with your father and Jaskier?” Triss says stepping into the kitchen with two stacked, covered trays, carefully avoiding the mess on the kitchen floor.

“Unless you want to help clean up?” Yen begins following after Triss with her pair of trays, and Ciri dashes out of the kitchen before Yen can even finish speaking. “Thought so,” she chuckles, setting the cake pops onto the counter and turning her eyes onto Jaskier and Geralt. “Did you even get any baking done?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure there’s a full cake in my hair,” Jaskier starts, picking out a glob of... _I’m going to say that’s frosting, yup, that’s what we’re going with,_ “but yes, my dear, we made a few more lovely confectionaries for the little lady of the house. I’d meant to make peanut butter cups, but we snacked on a bit too much of both the chocolate and peanut butter to accomplish that.” Which Jaskier felt bad about, but Ciri assured him was fine, so he’d pushed the worry aside - as best as his insecure anxiety would allow, anyway.

Triss moves over to the S’more Cupcakes set out on the cooling rack, ducking down to give them a sniff, humming softly and stares at them with a contemplative look - Yen bats her hand away when she tries taking one. Jaskier chuckles, picking up one of the spares from the adjacent counter for her; they’d made too many to pack into containers, so may as well make sure they don’t go to waste. Triss takes it with a quick ‘thank you!’ before sinking her teeth into the spongey pastry, a proper person would blush at the lewd sound she makes, but Jaskier grins like a damn Cheshire cat - he knows that lovely sound, and it was the sound of a job well done.

“So aside from leaving Geralt’s kitchen in need of some professional cleaning service is help,” Yen stars, snatching have the cupcake away from her wife and taking a bite of her own, “have fun?”

Jaskier smiles, “completely, Ciri is a natural in the kitchen with the aim of an Olympic archer if I’m being honest.” Jaskier touches the back of his head, where a spattering of cream was still firmly in his hair, she really did have impeccable aim.

Yen hums, a small smile playing on her lips, her eyes fixing on Geralt when Triss says, “glad to hear that, now why don’t you two go get ready, we’ll clean up.”

“Thanks, love,” Jaskier air kisses the brunette, handing her another cupcake in thanks that Yen wastes no time eyeing, he looks to Geralt who still hasn’t moved. “Geralt?”

“You shower first, I need to speak with Yen and Triss.” Jaskier looks between the three of them but shrugs, _more hot water for me_ , he thinks and heads upstairs. It’s halfway up the stairs that he hears the women guffaw in earnest, he’s almost tempted to go back to the kitchen to see what all the fuss was about, but not wanting to risk holding up Ciri he heads for their bedroom’s shower instead.

* * *

The school carnival reminded of Jaskier’s own high school days, though nowhere near as grand - the fanciest thing Jaskier’s school could come up with was hiring a travelling circus. But Ciri’s school put in a little more effort than he’d expected, and while there were clowns present, there were also games and attractions for everyone to enjoy. Geralt had even won Jaskier a stuffed teddy bear - promptly named Bert the Bear the moment it was handed to Jaskier - after Triss and Yen insisted on helping Ciri with the first shift of the bake sale. They’d returned as the sun began to set, helping Ciri and her debate team members when needed, but the teenagers were self-efficient enough that Jaskier felt a bit guilty just sitting around and chatting with Geralt for most of the afternoon.

“Dad, could you help me with this?” Ciri calls out, waving her hand about her face, “there are some big bugs here.”

Geralt looks over his shoulder to his daughter, though Jaskier sees his eyes flicker to the parents that stand in front of her table before sighing, “surprised it took so long.”

Jaskier looks between the parents and Ciri, before landing on his boyfriend, “what didn’t take longer?”

Geralt looks back to Jaskier, a genuine look of irritation and maybe even anger taking hold of his features, “ _big_ ot ‘bugs,’” is all he says before marching over to stand behind where Ciri sits. Jaskier is quick to join his side, feeling like he may already know what’s about to happen.

“Is there a problem here?” Geralt asks in the mildest, most condescending tone Jaskier’s ever heard from him, and if he weren’t so worried he’d be amused, maybe even impressed and a little horrified in equal measure.

The group looked to Geralt as he approached, none saying anything until he speaks. But with the way Geralt stands, tall and imposing, it’s almost like they’re looking _up_ at Geralt - Jaskier would laugh if the sneer on the man at the front of the group’s face weren’t so apparent.

“We were just asking your...” the man trails, an obvious question with an even more blatant answer, and Jaskier only _just_ manages not to roll his eyes.

“My daughter,” Geralt’s words are flat, though Jaskier can see his jaw flex in irritation.

“Right, your daughter here to put _that_ away,” he emphasizes, gesturing to the- _oh are you being serious right now?_ Jaskier internally groans when his eyes land on the rainbow flags Ciri has set out on either corner of their bake sale table, little flags Jaskier hadn’t even _noticed_ until the man pointed them out. _Why do people like this have to knit pick,_ he wonders, you _take the time to walk over to a child’s table just to bitch, really?_

“This is a children’s even, politics shouldn’t be involved,” the man’s wife adds on, and Jaskier _feels_ his genuinely pleasant day is slowly going down the drain.

Jaskier had dealt with his fair share of bigots throughout his life, it, unfortunately, came with the territory of, well, _existing._ There was always something people would complain about, be it race, creed, sexuality or what have you. But to bring it up at a school event, a _children’s_ event no less? It genuinely angered him, Ciri and her friends had done nothing wrong. But of course, there would always be holier-than-thou assholes like this wanting to impose themselves, even on children - maybe _especially_ on children. Jaskier knew he shouldn’t be surprised anymore, and yet being caught off-guard like this, with Ciri in the line of fire, sent his hackles flying up. This is why he doesn’t register Geralt’s hand going around his waist until he’s being gently nudged towards the older man’s bulk, but Jaskier quickly catches the hint and _happily_ plasters himself to the man’s side. At the overt look of disgust on several of the parents’ faces, Jaskier honestly can’t hold his tongue anymore.

“I don’t see how her support for human rights is anything political, do you, Geralt? It just seems like basic human decency to me,” while the light, airy tone of his voice conceals the boiling in his blood, Jaskier is sure that some of the venom seeps through his smile all the same - and, frankly, he can’t honestly bring himself to care.

“Sounds about right to me,” Geralt agrees, ducking his head down to peck Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier honestly can’t help the giddiness he feels both over the open gesture right then, even if only for a moment. A moment which is soured by the group sneering at them, though Jaskier may feel a little boastful for the undoubted way it makes the others who thought coming over to heckle Ciri feel uncomfortable.

“We have nothing against your lifestyle,” _sure you don’t, you bellened,_ “but there are _children_ around and it’s _hardly_ appropriate-” the man at the head of the group begins, and before Jaskier or even Geralt can speak, it’s _Ciri_ who stands up with her friend - _Dara, wasn’t it?_ \- steadfast at her side, both teenagers looking flushed in understandable anger.

“What isn’t _appropriate_ , sir is coming to my table where my friends and I are trying to raise money for a team trip and attempting to shame _my_ _fathers_ ,” Jaskier feels his smug and proud expression slip into one of shock at her words, he stares at the young blonde as openly as the group of parents, though for an entirely different reason. “These flags aren’t ‘political,’ they’re promoting equality. So unless you’re willing to purchase sweets and help us reach our goal, I suggest you take your rhetoric elsewhere. My fathers may be polite, but my barrister mothers would _very_ likely have a stronger word with you all. Now, if you still have an issue I’d suggest you take it up with principle Calanthe, and my parents will _gladly_ mention, as witnesses, how you all saw fit to crowd our table and harass her students during a school fair.”

 _She- did Ciri just...she didn’t just say- say_ that, _did she?_ Jaskier’s brain malfunctions for a moment, torn between pride and utter shock and settles on a non sequitur instead, _no surprise she’s the captain of her team._ It takes a moment for Jaskier to notice the father she’d spoken to looking absolutely incensed at Ciri’s lecture and subsequent dismissal, almost able to _see_ the man gearing up to raise his voice and- _nope, not fucking happening._

“Listen here you-”

“No, _you_ listen,” Jaskier cuts in, stepping up to stand beside Ciri, “you have one of two options here, continue on this useless tirade and I _promise_ you I’ll make sure you come out of this looking like a fool, or leave and enjoy the event _away_ from this table and these kids.”

The father turns his red-faced glare to Jaskier, his wife tries placating him, getting him to back down but the so-called ‘grown-up’ doesn’t relent, “are you threatening me, you damn _twink?”_

“If you think that’s a threat,” Geralt says from behind Jaskier, close enough he can almost _feel_ the man’s glare and rumbled words over his shoulder, “you won’t like what I have to say if you don’t stop harassing my daughter and her friends, _or_ call my boyfriend that again.”

“Eredin, let’s just go,” the man’s wife finally speaks up, actually _tugging_ at her husband now as she glances over to passerby's that slow to take notice of the scene at their table. But Jaskier meets the man’s glare head-on, had it just been him he would have brushed aside the comments, but this prick was talking to _Ciri_ and that just- _just fucking_ no _, you will not disrespect her, you fucking bellend._

“Is there a problem here?” The question is repeated, and for a moment Jaskier wants to glance at Geralt, wondering what prompted the repeat until he notices it’s actually- _Lambert? When did he get here?_

“No,” Geralt answers his brother’s question, the hand on Jaskier’s hip flexing ever so slightly, “they were just leaving.”

The group of adults at the table has doubled, some familiar faces and others not, though Jaskier knows a few through polite greetings earlier in the day as other parents of the debate team. The teenagers look a bit more bolstered now, backed by their parents, though Ciri and Dara stand just as firmly as they had throughout. Jaskier feels his chest swell at her tenacity, and honestly at her _bravery;_ Jaskier wouldn’t have had the nerve to say _half_ of what she had at her age, likely just giving in to the parents demand instead. It had taken him _years_ to stick up for himself, and even now he still falters, but Ciri stands tall and proud like a damn warrior princess. _I adore this little girl,_ is all he can think through the instinctual protective anger he feels welling up in his chest.

“Well, bye now,” another voice tacks on when the group doesn’t move, one Jaskier recognizes as Eskel’s baritone and this time, the parents actually _do_ leave - granted with a few grumbling, homophobic words and huffs. 

The tension in the air dissipates then, the patrons at the bake sale table taking one collective breath once the group is out of ear-hot and honestly Jaskier was a bit more relieved than he thought he would be. He didn’t think getting into a fistfight at Ciri’s school event would be a very good first impression or example to set. But he would have done it, he _damn well_ would have done more if they’d continued threatened Ciri or her friends. He was sure this wasn’t the end of things, but for now, he refused to let those assholes ruin her night any further. Ciri and Dara’s shoulders relax once everyone else calms, but the girl quickly turns to Jaskier and, not for the first time, surprises him when she speaks.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier raises a brow, confused because if anything he should be asking if _she’s_ okay.

“I’m fine, love,” Jaskier steps closer and pulls the girl into a hug she’s quick to reciprocate, “I’m so proud of you, thank you for sticking up for your father and me.”

Ciri pulls back and smiles at Jaskier, “of course I would, you're my parents, and I know you’d do the same for me, Jask.” She says it so casually, so _genuinely_ that Jaskier feels a little...honestly Jaskier doesn’t know _what_ he feels, but it’s warm and he feels so fucking _full_ with it. Choked up, almost. His eyes feel a little too hot, his smile wide enough to edge on painful, but he can’t bring himself to care. He misses Ciri’s words as she gathers up her group, the teenagers watching their team captain with rising spirits in what he is sure is an undoubtedly rousing pep talk, but her words to him keep echoing in his head.

“Hey Jask, you okay?” Geralt’s voice cuts through the loop of Ciri’s words, and he turns to the man with a new reassurance that he...he honestly didn’t _know_ he was looking for, _not until now,_ he realizes.

“More than,” he answers quickly and clears his throat, and maybe he was a little too quick to answer if the way Geralt’s brows furrow slightly, but takes the man’s hand in his all the same. “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Geralt nods, turning to speak with his brothers for a moment but never letting go of Jaskier’s hand as he does. After a few moments, Geralt nods his head to the side, and Jaskier takes the lead in walking them off to a quiet alcove by one of the school’s entrances. Geralt follows him without a word, and the moment they’re alone Jaskier can see a slight tension line the man’s shoulders, worry marring his sharp features, _that just won’t do_. But for the first time, it’s _Jaskier_ who feels like he knows exactly what to do this time, or more precisely, what to say; he just needed to find the right words, something structured and memorable and-

“Jask are you sure you’re okay? I’m sorry I should have warned you-”

“I love you,” _or just blurt it out, that works too._

“-about...I- you...fuck.” For a moment, watching Geralt malfunction is rather hilarious, but Jaskier’s sure that moment will come again and knows this one won’t; he can’t waste it.

“I’ve always loved you, Geralt. I...fuck, why are words so hard? I’m a _writer_ for fuckssake, but...yeah. I love you, I knew it before and was too scared to say it, no surprise there but just now-“ he pauses, his insecurities bombarding him; he knew Geralt was a sure thing, _knew_ it in his _bones_ and while that knowledge wouldn’t abate the small voices in his head, Jaskier finally felt brave enough to push past them.

“I love you, Geralt,” he says again because he has to reorient himself, _start at the beginning, you twit._ “I was scared, before. But just now...I felt safe, which is strange I know, given that those people could have well-tried something- no, nevermind them. When I say ’safe’ I mean _cared_ for. _Genuinely_ cared for and loved, and...and I’m sorry I put this off, I didn’t know what kept staying my hand, and when I _realized_ what it was I had a bloody panic attack over it. But now I just...I want her in my life, Geralt,” Jaskier knows he doesn’t have to say who, specifically he’s referring to when he sees the way a different sort of tension bleeds out of every inch of Geralt at his words; sees the way his throat works despite his lips never parting to speak, the of relief in his eyes despite the rapid blinks.

“I want you _both_ in my life,” Jaskier exhales shakily, he thought he’d cry when this happened, tears of joy, maybe. Or maybe waterworks of insecurity, but he feels...only genuine contented _happiness_. “I love you, Geralt Rivia, and I hope we can...we can be a _family_ , if I can join _your_ family, because there’s nowhere else I ever want to be, or would be more than honoured to be.”

Jaskier had expected a proclamation in return or maybe even a hug, so he wasn’t prepared for the near-tackle Geralt rushes him with. He laughs, breathless and so utterly _elated_ he can’t bring himself to care he’d stepped on his own foot while overbalancing, or that some of the wind was knocked out of him by the brunt of Geralt’s rushed weight. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around the larger man’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck. He couldn’t bring himself to care about how bumbling his confession had been, how unlike the romantic, grand gesture he’d dreamed up, because all he _could_ feel was love from the man who held him so tightly; fully, _wholly_ cared for by the man who whispers an endless litany of ‘I love yous’ into the crook of his neck.

Jaskier wraps his arms tighter around Geralt’s neck and knew he’d never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo everyone!
> 
> AAAAHHHH JASKIER FINALLY SAID IT! I won’t kid you, I honestly didn't see the chapter going this route but it just happened and I’m so happy it did! I was smiling like a goon by the end and I hope you were too! Thank you all SO MUCH for your love and support for this story, hearing from you and what you think makes my day! I’m working on a little Greskier one shot in my free time here and there, I’m hoping to get it out soon, but until then I cannot wait to see y’all at the next chapter!
> 
> Bake sale recipes:  
> \- [Dirt Brownies](https://tasty.co/recipe/dirt-brownies)  
> \- [Strawberry Icebox Cake](https://tasty.co/recipe/3-ingredient-strawberry-icebox-cake)  
> \- [S’mores Cupcakes](https://tasty.co/recipe/s-mores-cupcake)


	24. The Folie à Deux of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There had been hints leading up to this moment, Jaskier was sure, and yet he’d missed them....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> I’m super sorry for the lack of updates last week, I just started a new job so with that and uni everything’s been a bit hectic. Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for it, enjoy!!

There had been hints leading up to this moment, Jaskier was sure, and yet he’d missed every one of them.

“Relax for me,” Geralt hums against his lips, his words a soft whisper while his hands work with gentle, practiced efficiency and all Jaskier can think is, _did he practice this on himself first?_ It was a tantalizing thought.

It had been a little over a month since Jaskier had made his offer in the kitchen, and for a time he thought Geralt had forgotten about it. He hadn’t noticed the man’s subtle attention on him, asking offhanded questions to his preferences and dislikes. Questions Jaskier had answered eagerly, distractedly sometimes, even if he hadn’t known the reasoning behind them.

So in all honesty, he’d been expecting something...

“Comfortable?” Geralt asks, low and dark against the side of his neck. Jaskier nods, not trusting his own voice just now. “I need an answer, little lark.” Jaskier feels torn between trying to speak whilst not losing his mind and the teasing, wet drag of Geralt’s knuckles along his hardening cock now entrapped by a silicone ring.

...simple.

_I have never been so wrong in my life._

“Y-Yes,” he croaks out brokenly, Jaskier winces at the wrecked sound. He clears his throat but keeps his eyes closed, swallowing past the lump in his throat and tries again, “yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he feels Geralt’s warm, calloused fingers brush along his front, gently pinching at a nipple and Jaskier lets out a shuddering breath. “Such a good boy, my wonderful little lark.” Jaskier whimpers.

_Rushing into the bedroom to grab his forgotten satchel, Jaskier runs through his mental checklist once more, ensuring he hadn’t forgotten anything else. Though he slows as he reaches for the bag when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Geralt snatching his hands behind his back._

_What really makes Jaskier pause though is the stunning, rosy blush painting Geralt’s sharp cheekbones, “what are you hiding?” He asks with a sly smile, wondering if it was sheer and in his size - Geralt had not-so-subtly asked for his measurements, not a week before, after all._

_“I’m just doing some remodelling,” Geralt rasps out, hands still behind his back and Jaskier swears he can almost_ see _him try to sound a little more convincing, “nothing major...you’ll like it.”_

_Jaskier hums a soft chuckle through his nose, stepping forward to peck his boyfriend’s lips, “I’m sure I will, love.”_

_As much as his curiosity had wanted him to stick around, he knew Filivandrel would throttle him if he was late to another publisher's meeting. They were making the final rounds of his book, and even he could understand the importance of this stage, a stage he never thought he could even_ reach. _So yes, being on time to these dastardly boring meetings with stuffy women and men in suits_ mattered _\- he thinks Filivandrel would be proud of his ‘adulting’ abilities if only Jaskier would cut down on the whining. Which was impossible to do, so...he had other battles he could win. This is why Jaskier calls a goodbye over his shoulder instead of lingering, leaving the room, and makes a mental note to ask (read: tease) Geralt about it again later._

_He’d forgotten to bring it up once he’d gotten home that evening, it was his fault really, so easily giving in to Geralt’s tricky kisses and wandering hands._ It’s nothing, I’m sure, _he’d told himself later that night, curling into Geralt’s side without too much thought about Geralt’s scheming, sure he’d find out soon enough anyway._

That had been less than a week ago, and _oh God am I finding out._

Jaskier hadn’t questioned the new items Geralt snuck home after work over random days the past few weeks, from blank bags to house remodelling tools. And looking back now, he feels a little foolish for it. _I’m not this oblivious, normally, I swear...I’ve just been busy._ Jaskier hadn’t thought to question the reinforced, stainless steel ceiling hook that appeared over their bed the night he returned from his meeting with his publishers; hadn’t thought to bring it up over breakfast the next day, either.

The signs had all been there, but Jaskier had underestimated Geralt’s desires too much to notice.

“Open,” the command rings through Jaskier’s head, an echoing boom through the growing haze he feels consuming him, and yet sounds so, _so_ faint.

He does as he’s told.

“Too tight?” Geralt asks, warm lips and teeth nipping at his earlobe as supple leather gently cuts into the flesh of his cheeks. Jaskier hums, shaking his head and bites down on the thick, smooth rubber of the bit gag.

He’d expected something a little less-than-vanilla, but still pretty _vanilla_ when Geralt asked him how he felt about lingerie. Jaskier had snorted and jokingly teased him, _‘that the best you got?’_ That time, it was the older man who simply hummed in reply, and the writer thought that would be all he was in for. He’d felt a little...well, disappointed, but it was okay; _Geralt’s new to all this_ , he reasoned, _we can work our way up later_.

“Fuck,” Geralt’s groan reverberates through Jaskier’s damn _soul._ He reaches for Jaskier’s slicked cock once again, wrapping a lax, textured hand around it in a too-loose-grip that does nothing more than make Jaskier want to _scream._

Jaskier had thought Geralt wanted to see him in lingerie, and he was right...or, well, only _half_ right. “You look gorgeous like this.”

Jaskier whines at the compliment, giving a gentle tug at the secure, leather wrist cuffs above his head as he ruts into Geralt’s loose fist looking for some _relief,_ but only found more electric sparks of frustration.

Knelt on the bed like this, the fencenet stockings dug into his kneecaps ever so slightly, trapped between the silk sheets and his weight; a constant caress bringing him back to reality with every movement, every shift and twitch of his legs. Grounding. With every breath and tense of his stomach as he moans, Jaskier feels the leather thigh garters press into his sides, unrelenting. Secure. The suspension ropes attached to the ceiling giving _just_ enough for him to dip his back and rely on the ropes to keep him up, swinging ever so slightly when he rocks forward on his knees into Geralt’s grip. Weightless. And Geralt, _oh my perfect Dominant,_ right there watching every time his eyes would flutter open; a hand always touching some part of him, from his cock to trailing curious digits down the scruff of chest hair he’d grown back. _Alive._

“So perfect,” he hears the growl like it was spoken into his very skin, dancing along his tendons, “ _my_ flawless little lark.”

Third session: Geralt’s Fantasy.

Jaskier cracks open his eyes and tries to focus them this time, looking up to meet Geralt’s darkened, hungry gaze staring down at him. _A white wolf and his trembling prey,_ Jaskier’s hazy brain thinks, not for the first time but with a fervour that he’d never felt so acutely before now. Even knelt in front of Jaskier at the center of the bed, he looks like a king astride a throne he was born to embrace. Every line of Geralt’s being was drawn with reverence, power and a beauty Jaskier had never imagined could be real. Mighty, like a God of Old. And Jaskier was here, knelt and helpless but to worship; lean into every touch, tremble at every word of praise and plead - _beg -_ for more.

He feels almost bereft when Geralt’s hands leave him, slowly tracking the man’s movements to see him holding-

“Still okay to keep going?”

-a leather blindfold.

_He’s going to be the death of me,_ Jaskier thinks with a particularly embarrassing whine that can only really be translated as the noise equivalent of when someone falls asleep on their keyboard. Not his most dignified moment, sure, but could he really be blamed? Because right then, it hits Jaskier that Geralt likely has a fetish for blindfolding him. He thinks back to their second session for a brief moment, of Geralt’s gentle yet commanding voice telling him to, _‘close your eyes, when you’re ready to continue.’_ Jaskier realizes this must have been something Geralt was, in some way, always fantasizing about and their session had been a way to explore that fantasy. To solidify it. Jaskier feels his heart thumping heavily in his chest, a mix of excitement for what is and could be knowing this; wondering if, maybe a little selfishly, he was the only one who knew about this little secret of his boyfriend’s. He nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically because for a split, second Geralt smiles at him. Breaking the façade of a domineering presence he beams at Jaskier, amused and so _soft_ the brunet’s breath stutters for a moment. _He’s in his element, and he’s stunning._

“Okay,” Geralt clears his throat, remerging into his Dominant persona, and asks, “what is your ‘stop’ gesture?” Jaskier doesn’t have to think about it, instinctually lifting his right leg up, bent at the knee and thumps it down on the mattress three times in quick succession.

“Good boy,” Geralt grins as a hand reaches forward, his thumb gently brushing along Jaskier’s lip and gag, “I love you, my beautiful little lark.”

“Ah ‘uff ‘oou,” he tries saying and Geralt’s predatory grin grows slightly more tender, leaning forward he presses a soft kiss to Jaskier’s lower lip.

Geralt moves back, a renewed spark behind his hazel-gold eyes that Jaskier stares back at with bated breath. Geralt’s gaze on him feels electric, his eyes roaming over him, drinking in Jaskier’s helpless state and _revelling_ in it. His Dominant taking enjoyment in how trapped he is, how Jaskier is bent to his every wish and whim; for the first time in what’s felt like a lifetime, his defencelessness didn’t scare Jaskier. He felt overwhelmed with it, _empowered_ by it, and oh so, _so_ loved with every ghosting touch of reverence. Geralt’s touches trail across his bare skin as he circles behind him, never breaking contact. Only pulling away long enough for his Dominant to lower the blindfold over his eyes from behind, and all at once, Jaskier’s consumed in darkness.

Every one of his senses heightens with the loss of his sight, his skin sensitive to every brush of Geralt’s teasing kisses and the constricting bindings; his ears pick up on all his stuttered breaths and Geralt’s shameless, filthy praises. The taste of the bit gag should be non-existent, and yet Jaskier’s mouth waters all the same; he can smell Geralt’s cologne of mint and pine, and almost feels drowned in the aroma of lemon lavender from the candle Jaskier loves burning during a scene. The scent always kept him grounded, something to focus on when everything blurred together.

He was safe here, worshiped, and letting go of his senses - his _thoughts -_ was the easiest thing Jaskier had ever done.

Jaskier’s head falls forward at the first bite of teeth at his shoulder, a whimpering moan follows when another bite-kiss occurs just below it, to the right of his spine. The pain was dulled by the pleasure it wrought, making him aware of the way his skin bunched as Geralt bit down; his skin stretched as it was undoubtedly marked by his Dominant’s teeth. None of it so hard it hurt, but _just_ enough for the sting to linger once Geralt released him. Jaskier had never really given biting during sex much thought before, but now? _Please never stop,_ he silently pleads, _mark me up and let the world know I’m yours._

“Did you know, I love watching you change?” Geralt whispers against the middle of his back before a warm, wet tongue runs up along his spine. Jaskier’s shiver tears through him like a rattling tremble he can feel in his bones.

“Watching you from behind, how strong you look,” another bite at the side of his back, and another kiss to soothe the sting, “the way your muscles move under your soft skin, it always drives me a little crazy...and you never had any idea.”

Geralt’s wandering hands settle at the artificial dip in Jaskier’s waist made by the leather garter, his right hand sliding forward to wrap around his undoubtedly flushed and drooling cock. He gives it a single, firm stroke but doesn’t release, and when Jaskier tries to thrust into his fist Geralt’s other hand tightens, keeping him steady.

“I love coming up from behind you,” he whispers against Jaskier’s tailbone, pausing to bite at the top of his arse. “In the military, we’re trained to watch our backs, to never leave it vulnerable, but you always do around me...”

Another single, firm stroke. Jaskier mewls against the gag, feeling saliva trail down his chin, unable to do anything more than helplessly listen to Geralt’s confessions; struggle against the want for _more,_ while taking everything his Dominant deigns to give. He was in a delectable hell. He was on fire and yet felt like he was eagerly waiting to be burned.

“I’d watch you, forcing myself not to grab you and _take_ right then and there, every time,” Geralt’s voice reaches his ringing ears like a distant, guttural growl. “I’ve never much cared for art, lark, but you _are_ art in subtle, delicate and delectable ways, and I want nothing more than to ruin you.”

Jaskier nearly _screams_ against the gag when he feels Geralt grind the thick bulge of his cock against him, pressing back against his hips despite _desperately_ wanting to rut forward into his grasp for some sort of relief. Geralt’s hands remain unrelenting in their grip on him, following his movements with preemptive success and offering Jaskier no ease or escape, _I can’t take this,_ is all he can think, _I need...I need-_ but his mind blanks on that need; he’d sooner cut an arm off than ask Geralt to stop, but he _needed-_

Geralt presses his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and shoulder, his voice searing through him when he speaks, “will you let me take you apart, my little lark?

_-that’s what I need._

“Ah! Ye-h! _‘Ees!”_ Jaskier desperately, wantonly mewls and frantically presses back against Geralt, _hoping_ he could somehow manage to entice his Dom enough to just take him- _ruin him_ before he lost all sanity.

“ _Ah!”_ Jaskier yelps, sure he’s all but whimpering when Geralt snatches his head back with a firm fist clenched at his roots.

“ _Behave,”_ the words are hissed into Jaskier ear, an authoritative menace to them that makes him shiver and go limp almost immediately. God, he was weak for this man. “Good boy,” the words are so much softer this time, gentle and Jaskier breathes a shaky sigh when the reprimanded part of himself perks up at the kind words.

“I will ask you again, little lark, and answer like the good boy I know you are,” Geralt’s voice is measured, patient like a teacher speaking with a particularly petulant student, _oh professor Geralt, that’s something we should try,_ Jaskier thinks with a hysterical little giggle.

“Ye’ ‘ees, ‘ir,” Jaskier tries again, trying to steady his trembling voice and body despite the scorching, consuming fire he feels beneath his skin.

“Mmm, brat,” Geralt hums softly, fondly and Jaskier smiles at the affection in his voice.

When Geralt’s hands leave him, Jaskier feels like crying out but bites down on the bit to keep the swelling whines at bay; misbehaving would only prolong his release, and he _needed_ Geralt in him before he lost all sense of reality. He breathes deep, focusing on the scent of lemon lavender when the faint scratch of Geralt’s fly being undone rings through his eardrums. He focuses on staying as still - as _well behaved_ \- as possible while Geralt shifts around, and almost feels an overwhelming _relief_ when large, warm hands touch him again after the muffled sound of fabric hitting the floor. He could do this, he _could be good_ until Geralt took him, tore him apart in the best of ways that would finally _end_ this temporary insanity with blanket bliss.

The familiar _click_ of a bottle cap makes Jaskier moan, and even he has enough cognitive presence still left - as little as it may be - to find that fact a little embarrassing. However, that embarrassment didn’t linger, not when he felt the chilled lube-coated finger slip easily to his hole, the muscles fluttering in anticipation when he remembers _he’s never fucked me._ The remembrance of that makes Jaskier’s head spin a little; they’d done just about everything _but_ fuck and it had slowly, but surely been driving Jaskier _crazy._ Geralt would always steer their interactions to something else, Jaskier never knew why but didn’t want to question it; _maybe fucking is a different level of something for him,_ he’d always reasoned, _maybe he’s never actually_ done _it before, with another man anyway._ And those reasons had been enough for Jaskier to go along with a different intimacy, no matter how much he imagined how _full_ he’d feel with Geralt’s cock in him. Really, he had been _fine_ to wait like a damn virgin bride on her wedding night.

Now though, _now_ Geralt is behind him, breaching him with a crooked finger that- _oh fuck right there!_ Okay, so maybe Geralt wasn’t a _total_ novice at the anatomy of men, but it didn’t rule out Jaskier’s theory of this being his first time. The curious part of him tries to follow Geralt’s movements, tries to work out if he’s done this with other men for some selfish, silly reason. But then a second finger joins the first and _thrusts,_ hitting Jaskier’s prostate like a damn bullseye and he kind of...blanks out, for a moment.

“Let me hear you, my bratty lark,” Geralt all but growls into the side of Jaskier’s neck, pulling a whimper from the brunet and he complies; he fucking _sings out_ his lustful torment and maddening pleasure for the entire fucking _street_ to hear.

Jaskier loses himself to the feeling of Geralt’s fingers in him, pleasure rolling through him like tidal waves, all ending in the near-painful throb of his weeping cock entrapped by the ring. The ring cuts off any relief, heightening every touch, pushing him to the edge with nowhere to go; he’s caught, pinned to the wall and lashed with a level pleasure he’d never experienced before. It’s almost too much, he feels himself rising and falling and _rising_ and _fucking falling_ with each of Geralt’s thrusts. _He’s not even put his cock in me yet,_ he thinks through the heady haze of lust. For a moment he doesn’t think he can handle it, that he’s going mad with every overwhelming sensation, all entrapped within him with no release and _I don’t want to stop, but I don’t think I can_ -

“You’re doing so good, Jaskier,” Geralt’s words cut through the marred emotions and sensations so perfectly, so _sweetly_ they leave no jagged edges in their wake. His words flow like a melody through the chaos of Jaskier’s sensitized being, a clear path through the rumblings of panic, “perfect for me, such a good boy, _my perfect_ boy.”

And those words alone, the comforting praise is, somehow, enough to stop the panic in its tracks. Kill the amalgamated monster of _too much_ dead, struck down by Geralt’s silver sword of sweet tenor and soft admiration. _How is he real?_ Jaskier wonders, feeling full but still not full enough despite the third finger now slowly loosening him, _how can he do this to me so easily? Bring me to the edge of the world, where unknown monsters lie, and pull me back to safety so swiftly?_

“Are you ready, my lark?” Geralt asks, pressing a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s neck, and another to his shoulder. His fingers are gone, and the telltale warm, slick blunt of Geralt’s cock brushes against his entrance awaiting permission.

Jaskier nods, arching his back as much as he can and shifts to splay his knees as wide as the ropes holding him up allow. He feels his breath catch in his throat when Geralt finally, _finally_ pushes into him. Jaskier whimpers, _feeling_ the stretch inch by inch, but whatever pain, sting or burn he may have felt only crawls up his spine in a molten line of sensation that adds to his pleasured fog. It almost doesn’t register when Geralt’s hips connect with his, it’s only because of the beat of pause; the tightened, bruising grasp of Geralt’s hands on his hips that Jaskier can’t wait to examine tomorrow morning, that Jaskier knows he’s _finally_ full of the man that’s consumed him in all other ways.

Geralt’s body is a hot, sweltering line of muscle along his back, and Jaskier can feel every one of Geralt’s stuttered, steadying breaths. It’s nice, comforting almost to know Geralt’s just as wrecked by all this as he is; for all his blunt words and careful actions, Geralt is driven just as mad by Jaskier as he is by Geralt. Balance.

“ _Ah!”_ Jaskier yelps, _jumping_ against the bonds and Geralt’s grip when the man pulls back in a slow drag, it’s not even because of pain or surprise, but the sudden _emptiness_ that hits him like a sucker punch. All at once, Jaskier is back to writhing, mewling like a damn _dog in heat_ because _no, come back you ARSE!_ Maybe if he was of more sound mind, he’d remember that part of fucking meant _moving._ Maybe.

“Being a brat again?” Geralt’s laugh is breathy, his words wafting over the back of Jaskier’s neck in a brush of warmth that makes him shiver, “fine then.”

“AH! Hah, ‘era’!” Jaskier tries calling out to his Dominant when the man _slams_ back into him without warning or preamble, thrusting into Jaskier so hard and fast he swears he feels him in his fucking _throat._ And it’s the best fucking thing he’s ever felt.

Geralt doesn’t hold back after that, fucking into Jaskier like a man possessed, every pounding rut punching out a gasp or moan from Jaskier until he’s reduced to nothing but animalistic noises. _Oh he’s definitely done this before,_ Jaskier thinks through his delirium when Geralt quickly find his prostate, and is unrelenting in fucking into it again and again and _again._ Jaskier trembles, losing any capabilities of even _trying_ to form words with every thrust and endearment from his Dom. His world narrows down to all the points Geralt and him connect with an almost blinding clarity despite the darkness he’s entrenched in, while everything else, every other sensation or sound, bleeds away into nothing. Only Geralt’s frantic thrusts, his kisses and nips; pinching at Jaskier’s nipples or pulling at his hair, all of it _just_ hard enough, _rough_ enough to teeter on the knife-edge of pleasure-pain perfectly.

“ _Jaskier,”_ Geralt’s words wrap around him, an aching edge to them while encasing Jaskier in their own world.

It somehow felt like everything was leading up to this one moment the day Geralt nervously walked into his life, from every fumbling conversation to tentative touch. Jaskier never much believed in destiny, but right then he felt like there was no escaping this moment. No escaping this man with a world of love and pleasure to give, and it was a world Jaskier no longer knew if he could live without. _I love him,_ he thinks with a frantic, all-consuming rush, _I love him so much._ He thinks he says it, is _sure_ that between the garbled, wanton noises spilling from his lips he says the words as best he can like a dogmatic prayer. _Salt,_ the word- no the _taste_ registers on Jaskier’s tongue, he doesn’t know how long it takes for him to realize it but he does and- _I didn’t mean to cry._ Though he knew those tears weren’t borne of sadness, but an overwhelming desperate _ache_ for release and something more, something his fogged mind couldn’t comprehend.

The touch at his cock is a scorching relief, the easy slide of the ring coming free more so, and the last words he remembers are Geralt’s simple command, “let go.”

Jaskier obeys.

* * *

Free.

He feels... _free._ There’s no other word for it, none that he can think of, anyway. Jaskier hums, turning over on the mattress and buries his face in Geralt’s warmth, turning to sling an arm across the man’s bare torso. Free and sleepy, a lovely combination. He chuckles softly, feeling a strange, light giddiness beneath his skin. _When had I been put to bed?_ He wonders, surveying himself to realize the stockings, garter and all other bindings had been swapped out for a soft, large and loose shirt- _Geralt’s_ shirt. He feels clean, well clean enough as one can after intense sex without a shower, _he cleaned me up,_ Jaskier concludes without a doubt, _he’s so good to me, such a good Dom._

“There you are,” Geralt’s voice is a soft rumble, washing over Jaskier like a warm, calm wave. “I thought you passed out.” Jaskier shifts and blinks his eyes open enough to look up at his boyfriend, not yet trusting his voice he raises a brow instead.

“You were out of it,” Geralt explains, the arm Jaskier only now realizes is wrapped around his waist tightens slightly, “ _really_ out of it, and limp. You...cried, were you okay? You didn’t gesture to stop, but...”

Jaskier presses a kiss to the man’s chest, “perfectly fine, dear heart. I was just...overwhelmed, in a good way. I promise.”

“Okay,” Geralt hums and Jaskier smiles, glad that Geralt trusts him to know himself. A lull of pleasant silence falls over them, then, “though...you also kept saying one thing while I was taking you down.”

Jaskier snuggles closer to the large man, pressing another lazy kiss to his pec, “what’s that?”

Geralt’s smile is soft and warm, a radiance behind his golden eyes Jaskier can see as clear as day despite the dim darkness of their bedroom. He shifts, Jaskier whines a little but settles when the man rolls them over, hovering over Jaskier and presses a slow, lazy kiss to his lips. He happily returns the kiss, humming when Geralt carefully settles down on top of him. Jaskier runs his hands along the strong pillars of Geralt’s biceps and the wall of his chest, a familiar feeling of _safety_ and _love_ rolling through him all the while.

“You said ‘I love you,’ over and over,” Geralt whispers into the darkness, staring down at Jaskier with a soft reverence and Jaskier feels a shy, if slightly embarrassed smile pulling at his lips - he doesn’t remember much after Geralt told him to ‘let go.’ If anything, really. But he knew he meant the words, even if he couldn’t recall saying them.

“What did you say?” He asks, meeting Geralt’s gaze head-on despite the flush he feels colouring his cheeks.

“‘I love you too,’” Geralt leans down to kiss him again, “every time.”

Jaskier hums, his smile turning into a slightly more teasing grin, “ _every_ time?”

“Every time,” Geralt chuckles softly, reaching up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, thumb brushing over his lips, “I’ll always say it back...forever, if you’ll let me.”

Jaskier watches Geralt, and maybe he was still coming down from his high, but he feels a little choked up at the implications of that promise. Because it _is_ a promise, he knows. He recalls his thoughts while Geralt fucked him, his mind and heart full with the knowledge that this right here, this moment with _this man_ was written in the stars, and nothing would change Jaskier’s mind of that. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve Geralt, but he promises himself he won’t waste a moment of it. And suddenly, Jaskier remembers why he’d cried, what that incomprehensible feeling was: happiness.

“Good,” he replies, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to Geralt’s lips, “because I’ll always say it.”

Geralt smiles, open and vulnerable but doesn’t try to hide it; he trusts Jaskier with it, and... _God damn it._ Jaskier feels the tear sliding down his left temple before he can stop it, try to hide it but Geralt, like with everything else, takes it in stride. The feeling from earlier comes back tenfold, and this time, and just like last time Jaskier relishes in it _knowing_ what it is now. Geralt’s hand moves up to brush the wet track away, and Jaskier smiles so hard his cheeks ache.

“I’m happy,” Jaskier croaks out, and it’s the truth, the _overwhelming_ truth he feels near to bursting with. “You make me so happy, Geralt.”

Jaskier watches the older man’s jaw tense, the knit between his brows as his eyes soften, his open smile never wavering, “and you make me happy, Jask.” Jaskier hugs Geralt tight and close when he ducks down, burying his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, “I love you so much.”

Jaskier thinks he hears Geralt’s voice crack but only holds him tighter, never wanting to let go and burying his own tearful smile against Geralt’s shoulder, “and I love you too. Forever, Geralt.”

“Forever, my little lark.”

Jaskier believed him, knowing in his heart of hearts that they really would have forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmigosh y’all, we did it! I have a small epilogue planned for these two, but, like I can’t thank you all enough for sticking with this story, enjoying it and showing your support!! I really hope y’all enjoyed this crazy ride as much as I did!
> 
> I’m working on another Greaskier story in the little free time I have these days - because apparently my brain isn’t done with these two just yet haha - so keep an eye out for that in future!
> 
> If you feel so inclined, or just enjoy geeky things, I’d love for y’all to follow my [Tumblr!](https://zombieliciousxiii.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Anyway, thank you all again SO MUCH for your enjoyment and support of this story, it genuinely meant a lot to me. I love y’all and I hope you’re all happy, safe and healthy!
> 
> See you in the epilogue!!  
> xxoxoo


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